ADAH  ISAACS  MENKEN 


LIBRARY 

CALIFORNIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


INFELICIA. 


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ly  I   >l»  1  4A 


BAM    OS/USS    »]  I  H  R  E  W . 


INFELICIA. 


BY 


ADAH   ISAACS   MENKEN. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.   B.    LIPPINCOTT    COMPANY. 
I  902. 


'  Leaves  pallid  and  sombre  and  ruddy, 

Dead  fruits  of  the  fugitive  years  ; 
Some  stained  as  with  wine  and  made  bloody, 
And  some  as  with,  tears." 


TO 

CHARLES   DICKENS. 


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Ijigljambg  Rocl>tstcr,£tut 


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INTRODUCTION. 


r  I  "•HE  materials  for  a  biography  of  Adah  Isaacs  Men- 
-L  ken  are  meagre  enough.  A  magazine  article  here 
and  there,  a  few  words  in  this  or  that  book  of  reminis 
cences,  a  wretched  little  pamphlet  issued  in  1868,  vilely 
written  and  vilely  printed,  whose  credibility  is  on  a  par 
with  its  impossible  grammar, — these  are  the  only  memo 
rials  of  the  brilliant  and  beautiful  woman  who  twenty-five 
years  ago  was  the  talk  of  two  continents.  The  stormful  life 
is  over,  the  passionate  heart  is  at  rest,  the  queenly  body 
is  dust,  and  the  jealous  past  has  left  us  naught  of  value 
save  this  handful  of  verses  which  you  can  read  through 
in  an  hour — which,  once  read,  you  can  never  forget. 

Let  us  try,  however,  to  piece  together  the  few  items 
of  personal  history  that  can  be  depended  on  as  au 
thentic.  Adah's  baptismal  name  was  Adelaide  McCord. 
She  was  born  June  15,  1835,  within  a  few  miles  of  New 
Orleans,  La.,  at  a  place  then  known  as  Chartrain,  and  now 
as  Milneburg.  At  the  time  of  her  birth  her  father,  James 
McCord,  was  a  merchant  in  good  circumstances,  but  busi 
ness  reverses  overtook  him;  and  when  she  was  barely 


iv  INTRODUCTION. 

eight  years  old,  he  died,  leaving  two  children  besides 
Adelaide  (both  younger  than  herself),  a  widow — and 
nothing  else. 

Luckily,  Mr.  McCord  had  been  an  ardent  lover  of 
dancing,  and  had  put  his  little  girls,  almost  as  soon  as 
they  could  use  their  legs,  under  the  tuition  of  a  French 
dancing-master.  Their  progress  had  been  astonishing, 
and  it  was  probably  through  the  dancing-master's  influ 
ence  that  Mrs.  McCord,  driven  by  poverty,  secured  a 
position  for  her  two  daughters  in  the  ballet  at  the  New 
Orleans  Opera-house.  They  were  known  to  the  public 
as  the  Theodore  sisters,  and  soon  became  great  favor 
ites  not  only  before,  but  behind,  the  footlights. 

Adah  was  far  the  brighter,  the  cheerier,  the  more  arch 
and  piquant.  She  early  developed  a  passionate  love  of 
study,  and  even  as  a  child,  worn  out  as  she  was  by  re 
hearsals  and  performances,  she  devoted  her  spare  time 
to  mastering  Spanish,  French,  and  the  classic  languages. 
At  the  age  of  twelve  she  is  said  to  have  begun  a  trans 
lation  of  Homer's  Iliad — "  completing  her  arduous  task 
with  triumph,"  says  her  early  biographer,  whose  word 
can  hardly  be  received,  however,  unless  he  knew  Greek 
a  great  deal  better  than  he  knew  English.  At  fourteen 
she  was  a  woman,  and  her  marvelous  beauty  had  cap 
tured  the  town.  Before  she  was  seventeen  she  had  mar 
ried  a  nobody  whose  very  name  seems  to  have  been  for 
gotten,  who  treated  her  cruelly,  and  who  finally  aban 
doned  her. 

We  next  hear  of  her,  still  in  her  teens,  as  the  "  Queen 
of  the  Plaza,"  the  favorite  danseuse  at  the  Tacon  Theatre 


INTRODUCTION.  v 

in  Havana.  Returning  to  the  United  States,  she  wan 
dered  out  to  one  of  the  newly-created  cities  of  Texas  to 
assist  an  amateur  company  which,  in  dire  need  of  a  com 
petent  actress,  had  sent  down  to  New  Orleans  for  the 
purpose. 

For  a  few  months  she  buried  herself  in  the  wilds  of 
the  new  State.  At  Liberty,  Texas,  she  established  a 
paper  which  had  a  very  brief  existence,  and  at  Port  Le- 
vanca  she  met  with  an  extraordinary  adventure  which 
was  a  fitting  prelude  to  a  romantic  career.  A  hunting- 
party  that  she  had  joined  one  bright  morning  fell  in  with 
an  ambush  of  Indians,  who  captured  her  and  Gus  Var- 
ney,  an  arrant  coward  in  the  party.  An  Indian  girl  called 
Laulerack — herself  a  captive  from  another  tribe,  reserved 
for  a  repugnant  wedding — took  pity  on  the  white  maiden, 
and  they  both  seized  an  opportune  moment  to  make  their 
escape  from  the  camp.  No  one  witnessed  their  flight  save 
the  dastard  Varney,  who  gave  an  alarm  in  the  hope  of 
currying  favor  with  his  captors.  The  two  maidens,  hotly 
pursued  by  the  Indians,  fell  in,  as  luck  would  have  it, 
with  a  camp  of  rangers.  Before  any  explanations  could 
be  made,  a  rifle-shot  from  the  surprised  camp  wounded 
Laulerack  to  death.  Hurried  explanations  followed. 
The  rangers,  apprised  in  a  moment  of  the  situation, 
started  out  to  meet  the  Indians,  defeated  them,  took  five 
prisoners,  and  rescued  Varney,  whose  treachery  Ade 
laide  was  too  noble  to  expose.  This  story  is  told  on  the 
authority  of  William  Wallis,  an  actor  who  claimed  to 
have  heard  it  from  Adah's  own  lips.  It  is  added  that 
the  poem  here  given  as  "  A  Memory "  was  originally 


vi  INTR  OD  UCTION. 

entitled  "  Laulerack,"  and  was  written  in  memory  of 
the  Indian  maiden. 

Adah  returned  to  New  Orleans  with  the  intention  of 
giving  up  the  stage  and  devoting  her  attention  to  liter 
ature.  She  began  by  studying  assiduously  the  German 
language  and  reading  the  classic  authors,  supporting  her 
self,  meanwhile,  by  teaching  French  and  Latin  in  a  young 
ladies'  seminary,  and  by  contributing  to  the  New  Orleans 
papers.  A  volume  of  poems  which  she  published  at 
about  this  time  met  with  considerable  popular  favor. 

But  her  restless  spirit  could  not  find  peace.  She  re 
turned  to  Texas,  and  at  Galveston,  on  the  3d  of  April, 
1856,  she  married  Alexander  Isaac  Menken,  a  musician. 
Her  husband  was  a  Jew,  and  she  herself  adopted  his 
faith,  changing  her  name  from  Adelaide  to  Adah. 

Again  she  turned  her  attention  to  the  stage,  and  dur 
ing  the  season  of  1856-57  appeared  at  the  Varieties  Thea 
tre,  New  Orleans,  in  the  play  of  "  Fazio."  Her  d£but 
as  an  actress  was  a  triumphant  success :  the  theatre  was 
crowded,  and  the  cheers  of  welcome  which  greeted  her 
entrance  on  the  stage  are  described  as  deafening.  For 
some  time  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  speak ;  when  she 
could  be  heard,  she  put  forth  every  effort  to  please,  and, 
though  not  gifted  with  any  great  histrionic  talents,  her 
magnificent  presence  carried  her  through  the  ordeal  suc 
cessfully. 

A  pleasant  glimpse  is  afforded  of  herself  and  her  hus 
band  at  this  time  by  Celia  Logan.  "  Our  family,"  says 
Miss  Logan,  "  was  intimate  with  theirs,  and  one  evening 
Olive  and  I  were  at  a  little  child's  party — at  which,  of 


INTRODUCTION.  vii 

course,  there  were  many  elderly  people — and  on  this  occa 
sion  I  first  saw  Isaac  Menken  and  his  wife.  There  had 
been  trouble  about  his  marrying  Adah,  the  reason  of 
which  I  was  too  young  to  understand ;  but  the  old  folks 
had  concluded  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  this  was  the 
proud  young  husband's  presentation  of  his  bride  to  his 
family.  Never  shall  I  forget  the  hush  which  fell  even 
upon  the  children  as  the  pair  paused  a  moment  at  the 
door,  as  if  to  ask  permission  to  enter.  Adah  Menken 
must  at  that  time  have  been  one  of  the  most  peerless 
beauties  that  ever  dazzled  human  eyes,  while  Isaac  him 
self  was  a  remarkably  handsome  man,  with  a  countenance 
as  intelligent  as  the  expression  was  noble.  How  little 
any  of  these  happy  people  present  that  night  foresaw  the 
gloomy  fate  that  awaited  that  strange  and  gifted  girl !  In 
after-years,  whoever  threw  a  stone  at  Adah,  it  was  never 
Isaac  Menken,  and,  no  matter  what  other  ties  she  con 
tracted,  she  always  retained  his  name,  only  adding  a 
final  '  s '  to  the  Isaac,  so  much  of  the  glamour  of  the 
first  love  hung  over  them  both  to  the  bitter  end." 

From  New  Orleans,  Adah  went  to  Wood's  Theatre 
in  Cincinnati,  then  to  Louisville,  and  afterward,  as  the 
leading  lady  of  W.  H.  Crisp's  dramatic  company,  she 
traveled  through  the  Southern  States,  supporting  several 
eminent  actors,  one  of  whom  was  Edwin  Booth.  Then 
she  retired  for  another  brief  period,  and  studied  sculp 
ture  in  the  studio  of  T.  D.  Jones  at  Columbus,  Ohio, 
contributing,  also,  to  various  newspapers.  Shortly  after 
ward,  at  Cincinnati,  she  became  the  principal  contrib 
utor  to  The  Israelite,  then  the  leading  Jewish  paper  in 


viii  INTRODUCTION. 

America.  Her  scathing  reply  to  a  bigoted  article  that 
appeared  in  The  Churchman  on  the  question  of  Baron 
Rothschild's  admission  to  Parliament  traveled  the  rounds 
of  the  papers  in  America,  was  copied  extensively  in  Eng 
land,  and  was  translated  for  several  of  the  leading  jour 
nals  in  France  and  Germany.  The  baron  sent  her  a  letter 
of  thanks  in  his  own  handwriting,  in  which  he  called 
her  the  inspired  Deborah  of  her  adopted  race. 

But  the  old  hankering  after  the  stage  overcame  her 
again.  At  Dayton,  Ohio,  she  scored  a  great  success. 
She  had  affected  the  military,  and  learned  the  art  of 
drilling  so  perfectly  that  she  was  elected  captain  of  the 
Life-Guards  in  that  place.  It  was  about  this  time  that 
she  met  the  celebrated  prize-fighter  John  C.  Heenan,  famil 
iarly  known  as  "  The  Benicia  Boy."  On  the  3d  of  April, 
1859,  she  was  married  to  him  in  New  York  City. 

In  New  York  she  appeared  first  at  the  "  National,"  and 
afterward  at  the  "  Old  Bowery,"  in  such  plays  as  "  The 
French  Spy,"  "  The  Soldier's  Daughter,"  etc.  She  next 
traveled  as  a  star  through  the  Southern  States,  supporting 
James  E.  Murdoch.  "  I  found  her,"  says  Murdoch,  in 
his  book  on  The  Stage,  "  to  be  a  mere  novice,  and  not  at 
all  qualified  foi  the  important  position  to  which  she  had 
aspired.  But  she  was  anxious  to  improve  and  willing  to 
be  taught.  A  woman  of  personal  attractions,  she  made 
herself  a  great  favorite.  She  dashed  at  everything  in  trag 
edy  and  comedy  with  a  reckless  disregard  of  consequences, 
until,  at  length,  with  some  degree  of  trepidation,  she  paused 
before  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth !  I  found  in  the  first 
rehearsal  that  she  had  no  knowledge  of  the  part  save  what 


INTRODUCTION.  ix 

she  had  gained  from  seeing  it  performed  by  popular  actresses 
of  the  day.  She  did  not  even  know  her  lines."  Mr.  Mur 
doch  sought  to  explain  the  character  of  Lady  Macbeth  and 
give  a  few  general  ideas  of  the  action  of  the  part ;  he  then 
besought  her  to  study  the  words.  When  the  performance 
came  off,  she  passed  through  her  first  scene  with  great 
applause,  although  she  strayed  far  away  from  the  text.  Bat 
in  the  next  scene  she  broke  down.  In  the  midst  of  the  pas 
sionate  denunciation  which  follows  Macbeth's  assertion, "  I 
dare  do  all  that  doth  become  a  man,"  she  rushed  over  to 
Murdoch,  and,  laying  her  head  on  his  shoulder,  whispered, 
"  I  don't  know  the  rest."  "  From  that  point  Macbeth 
ceased  to  be  the  guilty  thane  and  became  a  mere  prompter 
in  a  Scotch  kilt  and  tartans.  For  the  rest  of  the  scene  I 
gave  the  lady  the  words.  Clinging  to  my  side  in  a  man 
ner  very  different  from  her  former  scornful  bearing,  she 
took  them  line  by  line  before  she  uttered  them,  still,  how 
ever,  receiving  vociferous  applause,  and  particularly  when 
she  spoke  of  dashing  out  the  brains  of  her  child ;  until, 
at  length,  poor  Macbeth,  who  was  but  playing  a  second 
fiddle  to  his  imperious  consort,  was  glad  to  make  his  exit 
from  a  scene  where  the  honors  were  certainly  not  even." 
The  rest  of  the  play  Adah  managed  to  get  through  with 
by  "  winging  it " — i.  e.,  by  refreshing  her  memory  in  the 
wings  while  she  was  off  the  stage. 

It  was  Mr.  Murdoch,  by  the  way,  who  suggested  to 
her  what  in  the  end  proved  the  great  success  of  her  life. 
"  Adah,"  said  he  one  day,  "  why  not  adopt  the  sensational 
line?  You  have  a  pretty  face  and  a  good  form,  and  pos 
sess  grace  enough  to  cope  with  Celeste,"  a  popular  actress 


x.  INTRODUCTION. 

who  had  made  a  hit  in  "  The  French  Spy."  Adah  was 
hurt  at  this  suggestion,  deeming  it  a  hint  that  she  would 
never  succeed  in  the  legitimate  drama. 

Nevertheless,  the  suggestion  bore  fruit.  On  June  7, 
1861,  Adah  made  her  appearance  at  the  Green  Street 
Theatre,  in  Albany,  in  the  character  of  Mazeppa. 

The  manager  of  that  theatre  was  a  Captain  John  B. 
Smith.  He  had  been  employing  R.  E.  J.  Miles  to  play  the 
part,  and  it  had  been  a  great  success.  No  woman  had  ever 
attempted  it.  But  by  a  curious  coincidence  Captain  Smith 
hit  upon  the  same  idea  as  Murdoch.  Menken's  beauty  had 
become  the  talk  of  the  country.  She  had  already  been  in 
Albany  for  a  few  weeks,  and  had  become  a  favorite.  It 
struck  him  that  if  Menken  would  consent  to  appear  as  the 
hero  she  would  make  a  hit.  He  made  his  proposal,  and 
received  word  from  the  actress,  in  St.  Louis,  that  she  was 
coming  East  and  would  do  as  requested. 

On  the  Saturday  before  the  performance  she  arrived. 
As  usual,  she  arrived  in  total  ignorance  of  her  part — igno 
rance  alike  of  the  words  and  of  the  business.  The  com 
pany  had  gathered  for  rehearsal,  but  it  would  not  do  to 
let  them  know  that  the  star  was  totally  unprepared;  so 
they  were  dismissed  on  the  plea  that  Miss  Menken  was 
thoroughly  fatigued  with  her  journey.  Then  Captain 
Smith  and  Adah  got  down  to  serious  work. 

"  Belle  Beauty,"  the  horse  she  was  to  use,  had  already 
been  trained  to  the  business  by  R.  E.  J.  Miles.  He  rode 
the  act  with  but  a  single  strap,  and  Adah  was  to  do  the 
same.  A  band  was  first  securely  fastened  around  the 
horse's  body.  A  strap  was  run  through  a  loop  in  this 
band,  and  encircled  the  body  of  the  performer,  who  held 


INTRODUCTION.  xi 

the  ends  in  his  hands,  so  that  the  closer  he  drew  them 
together  the  closer  he  was  held  to  the  horse,  but  by  let 
ting  go  he  was  free  at  once. 

"Now,  Miss  Menken,"  said  Captain  Smith,  "I  will 
show  you  how  it  is  done." 

He  was  lifted  into  place.  The  horse,  true  to  its  train 
ing,  sprang  forward  from  the  footlights  up  an  eighteen- 
inch  run  in  the  painted  mountain. 

Adah  looked  on,  pale  and  trembling. 

"  I'd  give  every  dollar  I  am  worth,"  she  said,  "  if  I 
were  sure  I  could  do  that." 

Smith  assured  her  there  was  no  danger ;  she  had  only 
to  hold  on  like  death,  and  the  horse  would  do  the  rest. 
Still  she  faltered,  and  begged  that  the  horse,  instead  of 
starting  from  the  footlights,  be  led  up  to  the  run.  Smith 
humored  her  in  this. 

But  he  made  a  grievous  error.  The  horse,  thrown  out 
of  its  usual  routine,  went  only  part  way  up,  and  then  with 
an  awful  crash  plunged  off  the  planking  upon  the  staging 
and  timbers  beneath.  Menken  was  lifted  up,  pale,  almost 
lifeless,  with  the  blood  streaming  from  her  shoulder.  A 
doctor  was  summoned.  He  found  that  she  was  not  seri 
ously  injured,  but  declared  she  could  not  appear  on  Mon 
day  evening.  He  little  knew  whom  he  had  to  deal  with.  . 
Adah's  blood  was  up ;  she  swore  that  she  would  go  on 
with  the  rehearsal  then  and  there.  All  efforts  to  dissuade 
her  were  unavailing.  She  resumed  her  place  on  the  horse 
as  soon  as  it  could  be  sufficiently  calmed ;  and  this  time 
the  feat  was  performed  in  safety. 

The  performance  on  Monday  was  witnessed  by  a  crowd 


xii  INTR  OD  UC  TION. 

that  packed  the  theatre  from  pit  to  dome.  The  fame  of 
the  performance  was  heralded  all  over  the  country.  After 
a  six  weeks'  run  in  Albany,  Miss  Menken  played  the  part 
in  Pittsburgh,  Cincinnati,  St.  Louis,  and  New  York,  draw 
ing  large  crowds  to  every  performance. 

Meanwhile,  she  had  married  again.  In  October,  1861, 
she  was  united  to  R.  H.  Newell,  the  humorist — better 
known  as  "Orpheus  C.  Kerr" — and  nearly  a  year  later 
was  divorced  from  J.  C.  Heenan  by  an  Indiana  court.  It 
was  generally  known  that  Heenan  had  treated  her  in  the 
most  brutal  and  ignominious  manner. 

With  her  new  husband  she  started  for  California  in 
July,  1863,  and  made  her  appearance  in  the  opera-house 
as  Mazeppa.  In  April,  1864,  she  sailed  for  England — 
alone — and  was  immediately  secured  for  Astley's  Theatre, 
in  London,  where  her  American  success  was  more  than 
repeated.  "  Mazeppa "  became  the  town-talk.  During 
the  latter  part  of  1865  she  also  appeared  in  a  play  enti 
tled  "  The  Child  of  the  Sun,"  written  for  her  by  John 
Brougham,  which  had  a  successful  run  for  seven  weeks. 

During  her  absence  in  England  she  had  been  divorced 
from  Mr.  Newell,  again  by  an  Indiana  court,  and  on  re 
turning  to  the  United  States  one  of  her  first  acts  was  to 
take  another  husband,  James  Barclay  (August  21,  1866). 
A  month  or  two  later  she  sailed  back  to  England,  played 
a  short  engagement  in  Liverpool,  and  then  appeared  in 
Paris,  December  30,  at  the  Gaiete  Theatre,  in  a  play  writ 
ten  for  her  and  entitled  "  Les  Pirates  de  la  Savanne." 
She  was  called  out  nine  times  the  first  night,  and  at  the 
close  of  her  one  hundred  nights'  engagement  there  were 


INTR  OD  UC  TION.  xiii 

present  Napoleon  III.,  the  king  of  Greece,  the  duke  of 
Edinburgh,  and  the  prince  imperial.  Afterward  she  alter 
nated  between  London,  Vienna,  and  Paris.  In  London 
her  rooms  at  the  Westminster  Hotel  were  frequented  by 
such  men  as  Charles  Dickens,  Charles  Reade,  Watts  Phil 
lips,  John  Oxenford,  and  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne ; 
in  Paris  she  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Alexander  Dumas 
and  Theophile  Gautier. 

It  was  at  the  period  of  her  greatest  triumph,  in  1867, 
that  she  collected  her  fugitive  poems  into  the  volume 
Infelicia,  dedicated  by  permission,  as  the  fac-simile  auto 
graph  letter  shows,  to  Charles  Dickens. 

In  June,  1 868,  while  in  Paris  attending  rehearsals  for 
the  "  Pirates  de  la  Savanne,"  in  which  she  was  to  open 
in  the  beginning  of  July,  Adah  was  stricken  down  with 
sickness.  She  never  rallied.  On  August  10  she  died 
quietly  and  peacefully,  attended  by  ministers  of  the  Jew 
ish  faith.  She  was  buried  in  Pere  la  Chaise,  and  on  her 
tombstone  were  inscribed,  at  her  own  request,  the  simple 
words  "  Thou  knowest." 

Adah  Isaacs  Menken's  faults  lay  on  the  surface,  and  it 
is  idle  to  attempt  any  concealment  of  them.  But,  with 
all  her  faults,  she  was  a  noble  creature.  Her  generosity 
was  unparalleled.  She  squandered  money  recklessly,  but 
seldom  upon  herself.  The  attaches  at  the  theatre,  men, 
women,  and  children,  were  her  beneficiaries,  and  even  in 
the  streets  she  would  thrust  handfuls  of  silver  or  rolls  of 
bills  in  the  hands  of  strangers  who  attracted  her  pity  or 
liking.  "  No  one  cared  less  for  money  than  Adah  Isaacs 
Menken,"  said  a  writer  in  the  Boston  Courier,  "  and,  had 


xiv  INTRODUCTION. 

her  income  been  a  thousand  dollars  a  minute,  she  would 
have  been  poor  at  the  end  of  an  hour."  While  she  loved 
a  man  she  would  cling  to  him  with  doglike  fidelity,  giving 
up  everything,  and  exacting  the  same  self-abandonment 
in  return  with  a  jealousy  that  was  not  only  unreasonable, 
but  unbearable.  Sometimes,  when  her  fiery  temper  was 
enraged  by  some  real  or  fancied  slight,  she  would  go  into 
a  cataleptic  fit  that  is  described  as  terrible  to  witness.  But 
she  never  said  an  ill  word  behind  another's  back,  no  mat 
ter  how  brutally  he  might  have  injured  her,  and  she  never 
forgot  a  kindness. 

Her  poems  are  as  erratic,  as  impulsive,  as  faulty,  as  her 
self.  They  may  not  have  the  true  lyric  form.  The  true 
lyric  cry  wails  through  them  in  defiance  of  form,  and  goes 
straight  to  the  reader's  heart.  "  C'est  magnifique,  mais 
ce  n'est  pas  la  guerre,"  might  be  the  martinet's  criticism. 
But  the  martinet  does  not  win  all  the  battles. 

Never  was  the  anguish  of  a  broken  spirit  put  into  more 
potent  words  than  in  such  poems  as  "  One  Year  Ago," 
"  My  Heritage,"  and  "  Infelix."  Even  in  her  brightest 
poems  there  is  no  joy — nothing  but  a  maddened  sense 
of  the  impossibility  of  joy  which  has  a  sort  of  delirious 
ecstasy  of  its  own.  It  is  like  the  wail  of  a  lost  soul  that 
has  had  a  glimpse  of  heaven,  and  it  appeals  with  sudden 
and  blinding  force  to  us  poor  creatures  who,  grossly 
hemmed  in  by  our  earthly  senses,  know  neither  hell  nor 
heaven. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

RESURGAM 9 

DREAMS   OF  BEAUTY 14 

MY  HERITAGE 17 

JUDITH 2O 

WORKING  AND  WAITING 24 

THE  RELEASE 27 

IN  VAIN 3O 

VENETIA 34 

THE  SHIP  THAT  WENT  DOWN 36 

BATTLE  OF  THE  STARS 40 

MYSELF 47 

INTO   THE  DEPTHS $1 

SALE  OF  SOULS 56 

ONE  YEAR  AGO 6l 

GENIUS 63 

DRIFTS   THAT   BAR   MY  DOOR 67 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

ASPIRATION 72 

MISERIMUS 73 

A   MEMORY 75 

HEMLOCK    IN   THE   FURROWS 77 

HEAR,  o  ISRAEL! 82 

WHERE  THE  FLOCKS  SHALL  BE  LED 87 

PRO  PATRIA 90 

"KARAZAH"  TO  "KARL" 97 

A  FRAGMENT 98 

THE  AUTOGRAPH  ON  THE  SOUL 103 

ADELINA   PATTI Io8 

DYING .     log 

SAVED 115 

ANSWER    ME 119 

WOUNDED 123 

INFELIX     .          125 


INFELICIA. 


RESURGAM. 

I. 

"VT'ES,  yes,  dear  love  !     I  am  dead  ! 
Dead  to  you ! 
Dead  to  the  world  ! 
Dead  for  ever ! 

It  was  one  young  night  in  May. 
The  stars  were  strangled,  and  the  moon  was  blind  with  the 

flying  clouds  of  a  black  despair. 

Years  and  years  the  songless  soul  waited  to  drift  out 
beyond  the  sea  of  pain  where  the  shapeless  life  was 
wrecked. 

The  red  mouth  closed  down  the  breath  that  was  hard 
and  fierce. 

The  mad  pulse  beat  back  the  baffled  life  with  a  low 
sob. 

And  so  the  stark  and  naked  soul  unfolded  its  wings  to 
the  dimness  of  Death  ! 
A  lonely,  unknown  Death. 

A  Death  that  left  this  dumb,  living  body  as  his  endless 
mark 

9 


io  RESURGAM. 

And  left  these  golden  billows  of  hair  to  drown  the 
whiteness  of  my  bosom. 

Left  these  crimson  roses  gleaming  on  my  forehead  to 
hide  the  dust  of  the  grave. 

And  Death  left  an  old  light  in  my  eyes,  and  old  music 
for  my  tongue,  to  deceive  the  crawling  worms  that  would 
seek  my  warm  flesh. 

But  the  purple  wine  that  I  quaff  sends  no  thrill  of  Love 
and  Song  through  my  empty  veins. 

Yet  my  red  lips  are  not  pallid  and  horrified. 
Thy  kisses  are  doubtless  sweet  that  throb  out  an  eternal 
passion  for  me  ! 

But  I  feel  neither  pleasure,  passion  nor  pain. 
So  I  am  certainly  dead. 
Dead  in  this  beauty  ! 
Dead  in  this  velvet  and  lace  ! 
Dead  in  these  jewels  of  light ! 
Dead  in  the  music  ! 
Dead  in  the  dance  ! 

II. 

Why  did  I  die  ? 

O  love  !     I  waited — I  waited  years  and  years  ago. 
Once  the  blaze  of  a  far-off  edge  of  living  Love  crept  up 
my  horizon  and  promised  a  new  moon  of  Poesy. 
A  soul's  full  life  ! 
A  soul's  full  love  ! 

And  promised  that  my  voice  should  ring  trancing 
shivers  of  rapt  melody  down  the  grooves  of  this  dumb 
earth. 

And  promised  that  echoes  should  vibrate  along  the  pur- 


RESURGAM.  x  j 

pie  spheres  of  unfathomable  seas,  to  the  soundless  folds 
of  the  clouds. 

And  promised  that  I  should  know  the  sweet  sisterhood 
of  the  stars. 

Promised  that  I  should  live  with  the  crooked  moon  in 
her  eternal  beauty. 

But  a  Midnight  swooped  down  to  bridegroom  the  Day. 

The  blazing  Sphynx  of  that  far  off,  echoless  promise, 
shrank  into  a  drowsy  shroud  that  mocked  the  crying  stars 
of  my  soul's  unuttered  song. 

And  so  I  died. 

Died  this  uncoffined  and  unburied  Death. 

Died  alone  in  the  young  May  night. 

Died  with  my  fingers  grasping  the  white  throat  of  many 
a  prayer. 

III. 

Yes,  dear  love,  I  died  ! 

You  smile  because  you  see  no  cold,  damp  cerements  of 
a  lonely  grave  hiding  the  youth  of  my  fair  face. 

No  head-stone  marks  the  gold  of  my  poor  unburied 
head. 

But  the  flaunting  poppy  covered  her  red  heart  in  the 
sand. 

Who  can  hear  the  slow  drip  of  blood  from  a  dead  soul  ? 

No  Christ  of  the  Past  writes  on  my  laughing  brow  His 
"  Resurgam." 

Resurgam. 

What  is  that  when  I  have  been  dead  these  long  weary 
years! 


12  RESURGAM. 

IV. 

Silver  walls  of  Sea  ! 

Gold  and  spice  laden  barges  ! 

White-sailed  ships  from  Indian  seas,  with  costly  pearls 
and  tropic  wines  go  by  unheeding  ! 

None  pause  to  lay  one  token  at  my  feet 

No  mariner  lifts  his  silken  banner  for  my  answering  hail. 

No  messages  from  the  living  to  the  dead. 

Must  all  lips  fall  out  of  sound  as  the  soul  dies  to  be 
heard  ? 

Shall  Love  send  back  no  revelation  through  this  inter 
minable  distance  of  Death  ? 

Can  He  who  promised  the  ripe  Harvest  forget  the  weep 
ing  Sower  ? 

How  can  I  stand  here  so  calm  ? 

I  hear  the  clods  closing  down  my  coffin,  and  yet  shriek 
not  out  like  the  pitiless  wind,  nor  reach  my  wild  arms  after 
my  dead  soul ! 

Will  no  sun  of  fire  again  rise  over  the  solemn  East  ? 

I  am  tired  of  the  foolish  moon  showing  only  her  haggard 
face  above  the  rocks  and  chasms  of  my  grave. 

O  Rocks  !  O  Chasms  !  sink  back  to  your  black  cradles 
in  the  West ! 

Leave  me  dead  in  the  depths! 
Leave  me  dead  in  the  wine  ! 
Leave  me  dead  in  the  dance  ! 

V. 

How  did  I  die  ? 

The  man  I  loved — he — he — ah,  well ! 
There  is  no  voice  from  the  grave. 


RESURGAM.  13 

The  ship  that  went  down  at  sea,  with  seven  times 
thousand  souls  for  Death,  sent  back  no  answer. 

The  breeze  is  voiceless  that  saw  the  sails  shattered  in 
the  mad  tempest,  and  heard  the  cry  for  mercy  as  one  frail 
arm  clung  to  the  last  spar  of  the  sinking  wreck. 

Fainting  souls  rung  out  their  unuttered  messages  to  the 
silent  clouds. 

Alas  !  I  died  not  so  ! 
I  died  not  so  I 

VI. 
How  did  I  die  ? 

No  man  has  wrenched  his  shroud  from  his  stiffened 
corpse  to  say : 

"  Ye  murdered  me  f" 

No  woman  has  died  with  enough  of  Christ  in  her  sou1 
to  tear  the  bandage  from  her  glassy  eyes  and  say : 

"  Ye  critcified  me  !" 
Resurgam !  Resurgam ! 


DREAMS  OF  BEAUTY. 

yiSIONS  of  Beauty,  of  Light,  and  of  Love, 

Born  in  the  soul  of  a  Dream, 
Lost,  like  the  phantom-bird  under  the  dove, 
When  she  flies  over  a  stream — 

Come  ye  through  portals  where  angel  wings  droop, 

Moved  by  the  heaven  of  sleep  ? 
Or,  are  ye  mockeries,  crazing  a  soul, 

Doomed  with  its  waking  to  weep  ? 

I  could  believe  ye  were  shadows  of  earth, 

Echoes  of  hopes  that  are  vain, 
But  for  the  music  ye  bring  to  my  heart, 

Waking  its  sunshine  again. 

And  ye  are  fleeting.     All  vainly  I  strive 

Beauties  like  thine  to  portray ; 
Forth  from  my  pencil  the  bright  picture  starts, 

And — ye  have  faded  away. 

Like  to  a  bird  that  soars  up  from  the  spray, 

When  we  would  fetter  its  wing ; 
Like  to  the  song  that  spurns  Memory's  grasp 

When  the  voice  yearneth  to  sing ; 


DXEAMS  OF  BEAUTY,  15 

Like  the  cloud-glory  that  sunset  lights  up, 

When  the  storm  bursts  from  its  height ; 
Like  the  sheet-silver  that  rolls  on  the  sea, 

When  it  is  touched  by  the  night- 
Bright,  evanescent,  ye  come  and  are  gone, 

Visions  of  mystical  birth ; 
Art  that  could  paint  you  was  never  vouchsafed 

Unto  the  children  of  earth. 

Yet  in  my  soul  there's  a  longing  to  tell 

All  you  have  seemed  unto  me, 
That  unto  others  a  glimpse  of  the  skies 

You  in  their  sorrow  might  be. 

Vain  is  the  wish.     Better  hope  to  describe 

All  that  the  spirit  desires, 
When  through  a  cloud  of  vague  fancies  and  schemes 

Flash  the  Promethean  fires. 

Let  me  then  think  of  ye,  Visions  of  Light, 

Not  as  the  tissue  of  dreams, 
But  as  realities  destined  to  be 

Bright  in  Futurity's  beams. 

Ideals  formed  by  a  standard  of  earth 

Sink  at  Reality's  shrine 
Into  the  human  and  weak  like  ourselves, 

Losing  the  essence  divine ; 

But  the  fair  pictures  that  fall  from  above 
On  the  heart's  mirror  sublime 


1 6  DREAMS  OF  BEAUTY. 

Carry  a  signature  written  in  tints, 
Bright  with  the  future  of  time. 

And  the  heart,  catching  them,  yieldeth  a  spark 

Under  each  stroke  of  the  rod — 
Sparks  that  fly  upward  and  light  the  New  Life, 

Burning  an  incense  to  God  ! 


MY   HERITAGE. 

1VF  ^  heritage !"     It  is  to  live  within 

The  marts  of  Pleasure  and  of  Gain,  yet  be 
No  willing  worshiper  at  either  shrine ; 
To  think,  and  speak,  and  act,  not  for  my  pleasure, 
But  others'.     The  veriest  slave  of  time 
And  circumstances.     Fortune's  toy  ! 
To  hear  of  fraud,  injustice,  and  oppression, 
And  feel  who  is  the  unshielded  victim. 

Cold  friends  and  causeless  foes  ! 
Proud  thoughts  that  rise  to  fall. 
Bright  stars  that  set  in  seas  of  blood ; 
Affections,  which  are  passions,  lava-like 
Destroying  what  they  rest  upon.     Love's 
Fond  and  fervid  tide  preparing  icebergs 
That  fragile  bark,  this  loving  human  heart. 

O'ermastering  Pride  ! 

Ruler  of  the  Soul ! 
Life,  with  all  its  changes,  cannot  bow  ye. 

Soul-subduing  Poverty ! 
That  lays  his  iron,  cold  grasp  upon  the  high 
Free  spirit :  strength,  sorrow-born,  that  bends 
But  breaks  not  in  his  clasp — all,  all 
These  are  "my  heritage  !" 

And  mine  to  know  a  reckless  human  love,  all  passion 

'7 


1 8  MY  HERITAGE. 

and  intensity,  and  see  a  mist  come  o'er  the  scene,  a  dim 
ness  steal  o'er  the  soul ! 

Mine  to  dream  of  joy  and  wake  to  wretchedness  1 

Mine  to  stand  on  the  brink  of  life 

One  little  moment  where  the  fresh'ning  breeze 

Steals  o'er  the  languid  lip  and  brow,  telling 

Of  forest  leaf,  and  ocean  wave,  and  happy 

Homes,  and  cheerful  toil ;  and  bringing  gently 

To  this  wearied  heart  its  long-forgotten 

Dreams  of  gladness. 

But  turning  the  fevered  cheek  to  meet  the  soft  kiss  of 
Jhe  winds,  my  eyes  look  to  the  sky,  where  I  send  up  my 
soul  in  thanks.  The  sky  is  clouded — no  stars — no  music 
— the  heavens  are  hushed. 

My  poor  soul  comes  back  to  me,  weary  and  disap 
pointed. 

The  very  breath  of  heaven,  that  comes  to  all,  comes  not 
to  me. 

Bound  in  iron  gyves  of  unremitting  toil,  my  vital  air  is 
wretchedness — what  need  I  any  other  ? 

"  My  heritage  !"  The  shrouded  eye,  the  trampled  leaf, 
wind-driven  and  soiled  with  dust — these  tell  the  tale. 

Mine  to  watch 

The  glorious  light  of  intellect 

Bum  dimly,  and  expire  ;  and  mark  the  soul, 

Though  born  in  Heaven,  pause  in  its  high  career, 

Wave  in  its  course,  and  fall  to  grovel  in 

The  darkness  of  earth's  contamination,  till 

Even  Death  shall  scorn  to  give  a  thing 

So  low  his  welcome  greeting ! 

Who  would  be  that  pale, 


MY  HERITAGE  19 

Blue  mist,  that  hangs  so  low  in  air,  like  Hope 
That  has  abandoned  earth,  yet  reacheth 
Not  the  stars  in  their  proud  homes  ? 
A  dying  eagle,  striving  to  reach  the  sun  ? 
A  little  child  talking  to  the  gay  clouds  as  they  flaunt 
past  in  their  purple  and  crimson  robes  ? 
A  timid  little  flower  singing  to  the  grand  old  trees  ? 
Foolish  waves,  leaping  up  and  trying  to  kiss  the  moon  ? 
A  little  bird  mocking  the  stars  ? 
Yet  this  is  what  men  call  Genius. 


JUDITH. 

"  Repent,  or  I  will  come  unto  thee  quickly,  and  will  fight  thee  with 
the  sword  of  my  mouth."— REVELATION  ii.  16. 

I. 

A  SHKELON  is  not  cut  off  with  the  remnant  of  a  valley. 

Baldness  dwells  not  upon  Gaza. 

The  field  of  the  valley  is  mine,  and  it  is  clothed  in  ver 
dure. 

The  steepness  of  Baal-perazim  is  mine  ; 
And  the  Philistines  spread  themselves  in  the  valley  of 
Rephaim. 

They  shall  yet  be  delivered  into  my  hands. 
For  the  God  of  Battles  has  gone  before  me  ! 
The  sword  of  the  mouth  shall  smite  them  to  dust. 
I  have  slept  in  the  darkness — 

But  the  seventh  angel  woke  me,  and  giving  me  a  sword 
of  flame,  points  to  the  blood-ribbed  cloud,  that  lifts  his 
reeking  head  above  the  mountain. 
Thus  am  I  the  prophet 

I  see  the  dawn  that  heralds  to  my  waiting  soul  the  ad 
vent  of  power. 

Power  that  will  unseal  the  thunders  ! 
Power  that  will  give  voice  to  graves  ! 


JUDITH.  21 

Graves  of  the  living ; 

Graves  of  the  dying ; 

Graves  of  the  sinning ; 

Graves  of  the  loving ; 

Graves  of  despairing ; 
And  oh  !  graves  of  the  deserted  ! 
These  shall  speak,  each  as  their  voices  shall  be  loosed. 
And  the  day  is  dawning. 

II. 

Stand  back,  ye  Philistines  ! 

Practice  what  ye  preach  to  me  ; 

I  heed  ye  not,  for  I  know  ye  all. 

Ye  are  living  burning  lies,  and  profanation  to  the  gar 
ments  which  with  stately  steps  ye  sweep  your  marble 
palaces. 

Your  palaces  of  Sin,  around  which  the  damning  evi 
dence  of  guilt  hangs  like  a  reeking  vapor. 

Stand  back ' 

I  would  pass  up  the  golden  road  of  the  world. 

A  place  in  the  ranks  awaits  me. 

I  know  that  ye  are  hedged  on  the  borders  of  my  path. 

Lie  and  tremble,  for  ye  well  know  that  I  hold  with  iron 
grasp  the  battle  axe. 

Creep  back  to  your  dark  tents  in  the  valley. 

Slouch  back  to  your  haunts  of  crime. 

Ye  do  not  know  me,  neither  do  ye  see  me. 

But  the  sword  of  the  mouth  is  unsealed,  and  ye  coil 
yourselves  in  slime  and  bitterness  at  my  feet. 

I  mix  your  jeweled  heads,  and  your  gleaming  eyes,  and 
your  hissing  tongues  with  the  dust 


22  JUDITH. 

My  garments  shall  bear  no  mark  of  ye. 

When  I  shall  return  this  sword  to  the  angel,  your  foul 
blood  will  not  stain  its  edge. 

It  will  glimmer  with  the  light  of  truth,  and  the  strong 
arm  shall  rest. 

III. 

Stand  back ! 

I  am  no  Magdalene  waiting  to  kiss  the  hem  of  your 
garment 

It  is  mid-day. 

See  ye  not  what  is  written  on  my  forehead  ? 

I  am  Judith ! 

I  wait  for  the  head  of  my  Holofernes ! 

Ere  the  last  tremble  of  the  conscious  death-agony  shall 
have  shuddered,  I  will  show  it  to  ye  with  the  long  black 
hair  clinging  to  the  glazed  eyes,  and  the  great  mouth 
opened  in  search  of  voice,  and  the  strong  throat  all  hot 
and  reeking  with  blood,  that  will  thrill  me  with  wild  un 
speakable  joy  as  it  courses  down  my  bare  body  and  dab 
bles  my  cold  feet ! 

My  sensuous  soul  will  quake  with  the  burden  of  so 
much  bliss. 

Oh,  what  wild  passionate  kisses  will  I  draw  up  from 
that  bleeding  mouth  ! 

I  will  strangle  this  pallid  throat  of  mine  on  the  sweet 
blood ! 

I  will  revel  in  my  passion. 

At  midnight  I  will  feast  on  it  in  the  darkness. 

For  it  was  that  which  thrilled  its  crimson  tides  of  reck 
less  passion  through  the  blue  veins  of  my  life,  and  made 


I   will   revel   in  my   passion." 


JUDITH.  23 

them  leap  up  in  the  wild  sweetness  of  Love  and  agony  of 
Revenge  ! 

I  am  starving  for  this  feast 

Oh  forget  not  that  I  am  Judith  ! 

And  I  know  where  sleeps  Holofemess. 


WORKING  AND   WAITING. 

Suggested  by  Carl  Miiller's  Cast  of  the  Seamstress,  at  the  Dusseldort 
Gallery. 


T  OOK  on  that  form,  once  fit  for  the  sculptor  ! 

Look  on  that  cheek,  where  the  roses  have  died  1 
Working  and  waiting  have  robbed  from  the  artist 
All  that  his  marble  could  show  for  its  pride. 

Statue-like  sitting 

Alone,  in  the  flitting 
And  wind-haunted  shadows  that  people  her  hearth. 

God  protect  all  of  us — 

God  shelter  all  of  us 
From  the  reproach  of  such  scenes  upon  earth  ! 

II. 

All  the  day  long,  and  through  the  cold  midnight, 
Still  the  hot  needle  she  wearily  plies. 

Haggard  and  white  as  the  ghost  of  a  Spurned  One, 
Sewing  white  robes  for  the  Chosen  One's  eyes — 
Lost  in  her  sorrow, 
But  for  the  morrow 

Phantom-like  speaking  in  every  stitch- 
God  protect  all  of  us — 
God  shelter  all  of  us 

From  the  Curse,  born  with  each  sigh  for  the  Rich  ! 


WORKING  AND    WAITING.  25 

III. 

Low  burns  the  lamp.     Fly  swifter,  thou  needle- — 

Swifter,  thou  asp  for  the  breast  of  the  poor ! 
Else  the  pale  light  will  be  stolen  by  Pity, 
Ere  of  the  vital  part  thou  hast  made  sure. 

Dying,  yet  living : 

All  the  world's  giving 
Barely  the  life  that  runs  out  with  her  thread. 

God  protect  all  of  us — 

God  shelter  all  of  us 
From  her  last  glance,  as  she  follows  the  Dead ! 

IV. 

What  if  the  morning  finds  her  still  bearing 

All  the  soul's  load  of  a  merciless  lot ! 
Fate  will  not  lighten  a  grain  of  the  burden 
While  the  poor  bearer  by  man  is  forgot 

Sewing  and  sighing ! 

Sewing  and  dying ! 
What  to  such  life  is  a  day  or  two  more  ? 

God  protect  all  of  us — 

God  shelter  all  of  us 
From  the  new  day's  lease  of  woe  to  the  Poor  ! 

V. 

Hasten,  ye  winds  !  and  yield  her  the  mercy 

Lying  in  sleep  on  your  purified  breath ; 
Yield  her  the  mercy,  enfolding  a  blessing, 

Yield  her  the  mercy  whose  signet  is  Death. 


26  WORKING  AND    WAITING. 

In  her  toil  stopping, 

See  her  work  dropping — 
Fate,  thou  art  merciful !     Life,  thou  art  done ! 

God  protect  all  of  us — 

God  shelter  all  of  us 
From  the  heart  breaking,  and  yet  living  on  ! 

VI. 

Winds  that  have  sainted  her,  tell  ye  the  story 
Of  the  young  life  by  the  needle  that  bled ; 
Making  its  bridge  over  Death's  soundless  waters 
Out  of  a  swaying  and  soul-cutting  thread. 

Over  it  going, 

All  the  world  knowing  ! 
Thousands  have  trod  it,  foot-bleeding,  before  ! 

God  protect  all  of  us — 

God  shelter  all  of  us, 
Should  she  look  back  from  the  Opposite  Shore  ! 


THE   RELEASE. 


"  Carry  me  out  of  the  host,  for  I  am  wounded." 

'"THE  battle  waged  strong. 

A  fainting  soul  was  borne  from  the  host. 
The  tears  robed  themselves  in  the  scarlet  of  guilt,  and 

crowned  with  iron  of  wrong,  they  trod  heavily  on  the 

wounded  soul, 
Bound   close  to  the  dark  prison-walls,  with  the  clanking 

chains  of  old  Error. 
Malice  and  Envy  crept  up  the  slimy  sides  of  the  turrets  to 

mark  out  with  gore-stained  fingers  the  slow  hours  of 

the  night. 
The  remorseless  Past  stood  ever  near,  breathing  through 

the  broken  chords  of  life  its  never-ending  dirge. 
Yet,  Ahab-like,  the  poor  soul  lingered  on,  bleeding  and 

pining,  pleading  and  praying. 
Only  through  its  mournful  windows  did  the  yearning  soul 

dare  speak ; 
Still  through  the  tears  did  it  ever  vainly  reach  outward 

some  kindred  soul  to  seek. 
Unheeding  did  the  ranks  sweep  by ; 
And  the  weary  soul  sank  back  with  all  its  deep  unuttered 

longings  to  the  loneliness  of  its  voiceless  world. 


28  THE  RELEASE. 

Hearing  only  the  measured  tread  of  Guile  and  Deceit  on 

their  sentinel  round. 

Wherefore  was  that  poor  soul  of  all  the  host  so  wounded  ? 
It  struggled  bravely. 
Wherefore  was  it  doomed  and  prisoned  to  pine  and  strive 

apart? 
It  battled  to  the  last.     Can  it  be  that  this  captive  soul  was 

a  changeling,  and  battled  and  struggled  in  a  body  not  its 

own  ? 
Must  Error  ever  bind  the  fetters  deep  into  the  shrinking 

flesh  ? 

Will  there  come  no  angel  to  loose  them  ? 
And  will  Truth  lift  up  her  lamp  at  the  waking  ? 
Shall  the  cold  tomb  of  the  body  grow  warm  and  voice 

forth  all  the  speechless  thought  of  the  soul  when  the 

sleeping  dead  shall  rise  ? 
Will  there  be  no  uprising  in  this  world  ? 
O  I  impatient  Soul,  wait,  wait,  wait 

II. 

"  The  Angel 

Who  driveth  away  the  demon  band 
Bids  the  din  of  battle  cease." 

O  prisoned  Soul,  up  in  your  turrets  so  high,  look  down 

from  thy  windows  to-day  I 
Dash  down  the  rusty  chains  of  old  Error,  and  unbar  the 

iron  doors, 

Break  the  bonds  of  the  Past  on  the  anvil  of  the  Present 
O  give  me  some  token  for  the  music  that  I  have  sent 

through  your  lonely  chambers  1 


THE  RELEASE.  29 

Wave  but  the  tip  of  your  white  wing  in  greeting  to  the 

Angel  that  I  have  sent  you  ! 

Look  forth  on  thy  fellow  Soul  pausing  at  the  gate  ! 
List  to  the  sound  of  his  voice  that  rushes  past  the  red 

roof,   and  with   unfurled  wings,  sweeps   up  its  music 

through  the  ivory  gates  to  thee  ! 

No  other  song  can  thrill  its  echoes  up  to  thy  captive  life. 
For  this  Angel  hath  chilled  the  hot  hand  of  Sin,  and 

crushed  down  the  grave  of  the  crimson  eyes  of  the 

Past 
The  daylight  looms  up  softly,  and  feathery  Hope  is  on 

guard. 
O  waiting  Soul,  come  forth  from  your  turrets,  so  lone  and 

high! 
Listen  to  the  low  sweet  music  of  promise,  rushing  wildly 

through  floods  of  God-inspiration  of  love,  up  to  Eter 
nity. 

Tremble  not  at  the  bars.     Come  forth  ! 
The  tongue  you  fear  sleeps  in  frozen  silence,  and  doth  thy 

mighty  secret  keep. 


IN  VAIN. 
I. 

Q  FOOLISH  tears,  go  back  ! 

Learn  to  cover  your  jealous  pride  far  down  in  the 
nerveless  heart  that  ye  are  voices  for. 

Your  sobbings  mar  the  unfinished  picture  that  my  trem 
bling  life  would  fill  up  to  greet  its  dawn. 

I  know,  poor  heart,  that  you  are  reaching  up  to  a  Love 
that  finds  not  all  its  demands  in  thy  weak  pulse. 

And  I  know  that  you  sob  up  your  red  tears  to  my  face, 
because — because — others  who  care  less  for  his  dear  Love 
may,  each  day,  open  their  glad  eyes  his  lightest  wish  to 
bless. 

But,  jealous  heart,  we  will  not  give  him  from  drops  that 
overflow  thy  rim. 

We  will  fathom  the  mysteries  of  earth,  of  air  and  of  sea, 
to  fill  thy  broad  life  with  beauty,  and  then  empty  all  its 
very  depths  of  light  deep  into  his  wide  soul ! 

IL 

Ah  !  When  I  am  a  cloud — a  pliant,  floating  cloud — I 
will  haunt  the  Sun-God  for  some  eternal  ray  of  Beauty. 

I  will  wind  my  soft  arms  around  the  wheels  of  his 
blazing  chariot,  till  he  robes  me  in  gorgeous  trains  of  gold  ! 
3° 


IN  VAIN.  31 

I  will  sing  to  the  stars  till  they  crown  me  with  their 
richest  jewels  ! 

I  will  plead  to  the  angels  for  the  whitest,  broadest  wings 
that  ever  walled  their  glorious  heights  around  a  dying 
soul ! 

Then  I  will  flaunt  my  light  down  the  steep  grooves  of 
space  into  this  dark,  old  world,  until  Eyes  of  Love  will 
brighten  for  me ! 

III. 

When  I  am  a  flower — a  wild,  sweet  flower — I  will  open 
my  glad  blue  eyes  to  one  alone. 

I  will  bloom  in  his  footsteps,  and  muffle  their  echoes 
with  my  velvet  lips. 

So  near  him  will  I  grow  that  his  breath  shall  mark 
kisses  on  all  my  green  leaves  ! 

I  will  fill  his  deep  soul  with  all  the  eternal  fragrance  of 
my  love  ! 

Yes,  I  will  be  a  violet — a  wild  sweet  violet  —and  sigh 
my  very  life  away  for  him  ! 

IV. 

When  I  am  a  bird — a  white-throated  bird — all  trimmed 
in  plumage  of  crimson  and  gold,  I  will  sing  to  one  alone. 

I  will  come  from  the  sea — the  broad  blue  sea — and 
fold  my  wings  with  olive-leaves  to  the  glad  tidings  of  his 
hopes ! 

I  will  come  from  the  forest — the  far  old  forest — where 
sighs  and  tears  of  reckless  loves  have  never  moaned  away 
the  morning  of  poor  lives. 


32  IN  VAIN. 

I  will  come  from  the  sky,  with  songs  of  an  angel,  and 
flutter  into  his  soul  to  see  how  I  may  be  all  melody  to 
him ! 

Yes,  I  will  be  a  bird — a  loving,  docile  bird — and  furl  my 
wild  wings,  and  shut  my  sad  eyes  in  his  breast ! 

V. 

When  I  am  a  wave — a  soft,  white  wave — I  will  run  up 
from  ocean's  purple  spheres,  and  murmur  out  my  low  sweet 
voice  to  one  alone. 

I  will  dash  down  to  the  cavern  of  gems  and  lift  up  to 
his  eyes  Beauty  that  will  drink  light  from  the  Sun  ! 

I  will  bring  blue  banners  that  angels  have  lost  from  the 
clouds. 

Yes,  I  will  be  a  wave — a  happy,  dancing  wave — and  leap 
up  in  the  sunshine  to  lay  my  crown  of  spray-pearls  at  his 
feet 

VI. 

Alas  !  poor  heart,  what  am  I  now  ? 

A  weed — a  frail,  bitter  weed — growing  outside  the  garden 
wall. 

All  day  straining  my  dull  eyes  to  see  the  blossoms 
within,  as  they  wave  their  crimson  flags  to  the  wind. 

And  yet  my  dark  leaves  pray  to  be  as  glorious  as  the 
rose. 

My  bitter  stalks  would  be  as  sweet  as  the  violet  if  they 
could. 

I  try  to  bloom  up  into  the  light 


IN  VAIN.  33 

My  poor,  yearning  soul  to  Heaven  would  open  its  velvet 
eyes  of  fire. 

Oh  !  the  love  of  Beauty  through  every  fibre  of  my  lonely 
life  is  trembling ! 

Every  floating  cloud  and  flying  bird  draws  up  jealous 
Envy  and  bleeding  Love  ! 

So  passionately  wild  in  me  is  this  burning  unspeakable 
thirst  to  grow  all  beauty,  all  grace,  all  melody  to  one — and 
to  him  alone  1 


VENETIA. 

"D  RIGHT  as  the  light  that  burns  at  night, 

In  the  starry  depths  of  Aiden, 
When  star  and  moon  in  leafy  June 

With  love  and  joy  are  laden ; 
Bright  as  the  light  from  moon  and  star, 

Stars  in  glorious  cluster, 
Be  the  lights  that  shine  on  this  life  of  thine, 

Be  the  beauty  of  its  lustre. 

Beneath  the  moon  in  leafy  June, 

Sweet  vows  are  fondly  spoken ; 
Beneath  the  stars,  the  silvery  tune 

Of  music  floats  unbroken. 
Beneath  the  sky,  and  moon  and  stars, 

Come  nestling  birds  of  beauty, 
And  Love  with  Bliss,  and  Hope  with  Joy 

Troop  down  the  path  of  duty. 

Oh  !  ever  may'st  thou,  bird  of  mine, 

Nestle  to  my  bosom  sweetly, 
Birds  of  my  soaring,  feathery  hope, 

That  flyeth  to  me  so  fleetly. 
Oh  !  ever  thus  may  vows  of  love 

My  yearning  soul  inherit — 
Vows  unbroken,  as  those  spoken 

By  celestial  spirit 


VENETIA.  35 

And  when  the  vow  thou  breathest  now, 

For  me,  for  mine  and  only, 
Shall  float  to  Aiden's  starry  land, 

Where  none  are  lost  or  lonely, 
Believe  me,  when  the  angel  bends 

His  loving  ear  to  listen, 
Radiant  will  be  the  smile  that  blends 

With  the  beauteous  tears  that  glisten. 

For  darling,  those  who  love  us  here 

With  tender,  sweet  emotion, 
With  love  that  knows  no  stop  or  fear, 

But  burneth  with  devotion ; 
Tis  only  but  another  proof 

That  something  good  is  left  us, 
That  we  are  not  by  Heaven  forgot, 

That  Heaven  hath  not  bereft  us. 


THE   SHIP   THAT  WENT  DOWN. 


th  not  sent  out  ships  to  sea  ? 
Who  hath  not  toiled  through  light  and  dark  ness  to 

make  them  strong  for  battle  ? 
And  how  we  freighted  them  with  dust  from  the  mountain 

mines ! 
And  red  gold,  coined  from  the  heart's  blood,  rich  in 

Youth,  Love  and  Beauty  ! 
And  we  have  fondly  sent  forth  on  their  white  decks  seven 

times  a  hundred  souls. 
Sent  them  out  like  sea-girt  worlds  full  of  hope,  love,  care, 

and  faith. 
O  mariners,  mariners,  watch  and  beware  ! 

II. 

See  the  Ship  that  I  sent  forth  ! 

How  proudly  she  nods  her  regal  head  to  each  saluting 

wave ! 
How  defiantly  she  flaps  her  white  sails  at  the  sun,  who,  in 

envy  of  her  beauty,  screens  his  face  behind  a  passing 

cloud,  yet  never  losing  sight  of  her. 
The  ocean  hath  deck'd  himself  in  robes  of  softest  blue, 

and  lifted  his  spray-flags  to  greet  her. 
36 


THE  SHIP   THAT  WENT  DOWN.          37 

The  crimson  sky  hath  swooped  down  from  her  Heaven- 
Palace,  and  sitteth  with  her  white  feet  dabbling  in  the 
borders  of  the  sea,  while  she  sendeth  sweet  promises 
on  the  wings  of  the  wind  to  my  fair  Ship. 

O  mariners,  mariners,  why  did  ye  not  watch  and  beware  ? 

III. 

The  faithless  sky  is  black. 

The  ocean  howls  on  the  Ship's  rough  track. 

The  strong  wind,  and  the  shouting  rain  swept  by  like  an 

armed  host  whooping  out  their  wild  battle-cry. 
The  tall  masts  dip  their  heads  down  into  the  deep. 
The  wet  shrouds  rattle  as  they  seem  to  whisper  prayers  to 

themselves ; 
But  the  waves  leap  over  their  pallid  sails,  and  grapple  and 

gnaw  at  their  seams. 

The  poor  Ship  shrieks  and  groans  out  her  despair. 
She  rises  up  to  plead  with  the  sky,  and  sinks  down  the 

deep  valley  of  water  to  pray. 
O  God,  make  us  strong  for  the  battle ! 

IV. 

What  says  the  mariner  so  hurried  and  pale  ? 

No  need  to  whisper  it,  speak  out,  speak ! 

Danger  and  peril  you  say  ? 

Does  your  quivering  lip  and  white  cheek  mean  that  the 

good  Ship  must  go  down  ? 
Why  stand  ye  idle  and  silent  ? 
O  sailors,  rouse  your  brave  hearts  I 
Man  the  rocking  masts,  and  reef  the  rattling  sails ! 

4 


38  THE  SHIP  THAT  WENT  DOWN. 

Heed  not  the  storm-fires  that  so  terribly  burn  in  the  black 

sky! 

Heed  not  the  storm-mad  sea  below  ! 
Heed  not  the  death-cry  of  the  waves ! 
Foot  to  foot,  hand  to  hand  !    Toil  on  brave  hearts  ! 
Our  good  Ship  must  be  saved  1 
Before  us  lies  the  goal ! 

V. 

Too  late,  too  late  ! 

The  life-boats  are  lost 

The  rent  spars  have  groaned  out  their  lives,  and  the  white 

sails   have  shrouded  them   in   their  rough   beds  of 

Death. 
Strong  mariners  have  fainted  and  failed  in  the  terror  and 

strife. 
White  lips   are  grasping   for   breath,  and   trembling  out 

prayers,  and  waiting  to  die. 

And  the  Ship,  once  so  fair,  lies  a  life-freighted  wreck. 
The   Promises,  Hopes,  and  Loves,  are  sinking,  sinking 

away. 
The  winds  shriek  out  their  joy,  and  the  waves  shout  out 

their  anthem  of  Death. 

Pitiless  wind ! 
Pitiless  ocean ! 

VI. 

O  mariners,  is  there  no  help  ? 

Is  there  no  beacon-light  in  the  distance  ? 


THE  SHIP   THAT  WENT  DOWN.         39 

Dash  the  tears  of  blood  from  your  eyes,  and  look  over 

these  Alps  of  water  1 

See  ye  no  sail  glittering  through  the  darkness  ? 
Is  there  no  help  ? 
Must  they  all  die,  all  die  ? 

So  much  of  Youth,  so  much  of  Beauty,  so  much  of  Life  ? 
The  waves  answer  with  ravenous  roar ; 
They  grapple  like  demons  the  trembling  Ship  ! 
Compassless,  rudderless,  the  poor  Ship  pleads. 
In  vain  !  in  vain  ! 
With  a  struggling,  shivering,  dying  grasp,  my  good  Ship 

sank  down,  down,  down  to  the  soundless  folds  of  the 

fathomless  ocean. 

Lost — lost — lost 


BATTLE   OF   THE   STARS. 

(After  Osstan.) 

A  LONE  on  the  hill  of  storms 

The  voice  of  the  wind  shrieks  through  the  moun 

tairu 

The  torrent  rushes  down  the  rocks. 
Red  are  hundred  streams  of  the  light-covered  paths  of  the 

dead. 

Shield  me  in  from  the  storm, 
I  that  am  a  daughter  of  the  stars,  and  wear  the  purple  and 

gold  of  bards,  with  the  badges  of  Love  on  my  white 

bosom. 

I  heed  not  the  battle-cry  of  souls  ! 
I  that  am  chained  on  this  Ossa  of  existence. 
Sorrow  hath  bound  her  frozen  chain  about  the  wheels  of 

my  chariot  of  fire  wherein  my  soul  was  wont  to  ride. 
Stars,  throw  off  your  dark  robes,  and  lead  me  to  the  palace 

where  my  Eros  rests  on  his  iron  shield  of  war,  his 

gleaming  sword  in  the  scabbard,  his  hounds  haunting 

around  him. 

The  water  and  the  storm  cry  aloud. 
I  hear  not  the  voice  of  my  Love. 
Why  delays  the  chief  of  the  stars  his  promise  ? 
Here  is  the  terrible  cloud,  and  here  the  cloud  of  life  with 

its  many-colored  sides. 


BATTLE   OF  THE  STARS.  41 

Thou  didst  promise  to  be  with  me  when  night  should  trail 
her  dusky  skirts  along  the  borders  of  my  soul. 

0  wind  !  O  thought !     Stream  and  torrent,  be  ye  silent ! 
Let  the  wanderer  hear  my  voice. 

Eros,  I  am  waiting.     Why  delay  thy  coming  ?     It  is  Atha 

calls  thee. 

See  the  calm  moon  comes  forth. 
The  flood  is  silver  in  the  vale. 
The  rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep. 

1  see  him  not  on  the  mountain  brow ; 

The  hounds  come  not  with  the  glad  tidings  of  his  ap 
proach. 

I  wait  for  morning  in  my  tears. 

Rear  the  tomb,  but  close  it  not  till  Eros  comes : 

Not  unharmed  will  return  the  eagle  from  the  field  of  foes. 

But  Atha  will  not  mark  thy  wounds,  she  will  be  silent  in 
her  blood. 

Love,  the  great  Dreamer,  will  listen  to  her  voice,  and  she 
will  sleep  on  the  soft  bosom  of  the  hills. 

O  Love  !  thou  Mighty  Leveler, 

Thou  alone  canst  lay  the  shepherd's  crook  beside  the 
sceptre, 

Thou  art  the  King  of  the  Stars. 

Music  floats  up  to  thee,  receives  thy  breath,  thy  burning 
kisses,  and  comes  back  with  messages  to  children  of 
earth. 

Thou  art  pitiful  and  bountiful. 

Although  housed  with  the  golden-haired  Son  of  the  Sky, 
with  stars  for  thy  children,  dwelling  in  the  warm 
clouds,  and  sleeping  on  the  silver  shields  of  War,  yet 
ye  do  not  disdain  the  lonely  Atha  that  hovers  round 


42  BATTLE   OF  THE  STARS. 

the  horizon  of  your  Grand  Home.  You  awake  and 
come  forth  arrayed  in  trailing  robes  of  glory,  with 
blessing  and  with  song  to  greet  her  that  seeketh  thy 
mighty  presence. 

Thy  hand  giveth  Morn  her  power ; 

Thy  hand  lifteth  the  mist  from  the  hills ; 

Thy  hand  createth  all  of  Beauty ; 

Thy  hand  giveth  Morn  her  rosy  robes ; 

Thy  hands  bound  up  the  wounds  of  Eros  after  the  battle  : 

Thy  hands  lifted  him  to  the  skirts  of  the  wind,  like  the 
eagle  of  the  forest. 

Thy  hands  have  bound  his  brow  with  the  spoils  of  the 
foe. 

Thy  hands  have  given  to  me  the  glittering  spear,  and  hel 
met  of  power  and  might ; 

Nor  settles  the  darkness  on  me. 

The  fields  of  Heaven  are  mine. 

I  will  hush  the  sullen  roar  of  the  enemy. 

Warriors  shall  lift  their  shields  to  me. 

My  arm  is  strong,  my  sword  defends  the  weak. 

I  will  loose  the  thong  of  the  Oppressed,  and  dash  to  hell 
the  Oppressor. 

A  thousand  warriors  stretch  their  spears  around  me. 

I  battle  for  the  stars. 

It  was  thy  hands,  O  Love,  that  loosed  my  golden  tresses, 
and  girded  my  white  limbs  in  armor,  and  made  me 
leader  of  the  armies  of  Heaven. 

Thy  voice  aroused  the  sluggard  soul. 

Thy  voice  calleth  back  the  sleeping  dead. 

Thou  alone,  O  Mighty  Ruler,  canst  annihilate  space,  hush 
the  shrieking  wind,  hide  the  white-haired  waves, 


BATTLE   OF  THE   STARS.  43 

and  bear  me  to  the  arms  and  burning  kisses  of  my 
Eros. 

And  it  is  thou  who  makest  beautiful  the  prison-houses  of 
earth. 

I  once  was  chained  to  their  darkness,  but  thou,  O  Love, 
brought  crimson  roses  to  lay  on  my  pale  bosom,  and 
covered  the  cold  damp  walls  with  the  golden  shields 
of  the  sun,  and  left  thy  purple  garments  whereon  my 
weary  bleeding  feet  might  rest. 

And  when  black-winged  night  rolled  along  the  sky,  thy 
shield  covered  the  moon,  and  thy  hands  threw  back 
the  prison-roof,  and  unfolded  the  gates  of  the  clouds, 
and  I  slept  in  the  white  arms  of  the  stars. 

And  thou,  O  Beam  of  Life  !  didst  thou  not  forget  the 
lonely  prisoner  of  Chillon  in  his  gloomy  vault  ?  thy 
blessed  ray  of  Heaven-light  stole  in  and  made  glad 
his  dreams. 

Thou  hast  lifted  the  deep-gathered  mist  from  the  dungeons 
of  Spielberg ; 

Ugolino  heard  thy  voice  in  his  hopeless  cell  : 

Thy  blessed  hand  soothed  Damiens  on  his  bed  of  steel ; 

It  is  thy  powerful  hand  that  lights  up  to  Heaven  the  in 
spired  life  of  Garabaldi. 

And  it  is  thy  undying  power  that  will  clothe  Italy  in  the 
folds  of  thy  wings,  and  rend  the  helmet  from  the  dark 
brow  of  old  Austria,  and  bury  her  in  the  eternal  tomb 
of  darkness. 

Thou  didst  not  forget  children  of  earth,  who  roll  the  waves 
of  their  souls  to  our  ship  of  the  sky. 

But  men  are  leagued  against  us — strong  mailed  men  of 
earth, 


44  BATTLE   OF  THE  STARS. 

Around  the  dwellers  in  the  clouds  they  rise  in  wrath. 

No  words  come  forth,  they  seize  their  blood-stained  dag 
gers. 

Each  takes  his  hill  by  night,  at  intervals  they  darkly  stand 
counting  the  power  and  host  of  Heaven. 

Their  black  unmuzzled  hounds  howl  their  impatience  as 
we  come  on  watch  in  our  glittering  armor. 

The  hills  no  longer  smile  up  to  greet  us,  they  are  covered 
with  these  tribes  of  earth  leading  their  war-dogs,  and 
leaving  their  footprints  of  blood. 

Unequal  bursts  the  hum  of  voices,  and  the  clang  of  arms 
between  the  roaring  wind. 

And  they  dare  to  blaspheme  the  very  stars,  and  even  God 
on  His  high  throne  in  the  Heaven  of  Heavens,  by 
pleading  for  Love. 

Love  sacrifices  all  things  to  bless  the  thing  it  loves,  not 
destroy. 

Go  back  to  your  scorching  homes  ; 

Go  back  to  your  frozen  souls ; 

Go  back  to  your  seas  of  blood  ; 

Go  back  to  your  chains,  your  loathsome  charnel  houses ; 

Give  us  the  green  bosom  of  the  hills  to  rest  upon ; 

Broad  over  them  rose  the  moon. 

O  Love,  Great  Ruler,  call  upon  thy  children  to  buckle  on 
the  armor  of  war,  for  behold  the  enemy  blackens  all 
earth  in  waiting  for  us. 

See  the  glittering  of  their  unsheathed  swords. 

They  bear  blood-stained  banners  of  death  and  destruc 
tion. 

And,  lo,  their  Leader  comes  forth  on  the  Pale  Horse. 

His  sword  is  a  green  meteor  half-extinguished. 


BATTLE   OF  THE  STARS.  45 

His  face  is  without  form,  and  dark  withal,  dark  as  the  tales 
of  other  times,  before  the  light  of  song  arose. 

Mothers,  clasp  your  new-born  children  close  to  your  white 
bosoms ! 

Daughters  of  the  stars,  sleep  no  more,  the  enemy  ap- 
proacheth  ! 

Look  to  your  white  shields  ! 

Bind  up  your  golden  tresses  ! 

See  the  blood  upon  the  pale  breasts  of  your  sisters. 

Where  are  your  banners  ? 

O  sluggards,  awake  to  the  call  of  the  Mighty  Ruler  ! 

Hear  ye  not  the  clash  of  arms  ?  Arise  around  me.  chil 
dren  of  the  Land  Unknown. 

Up,  up,  grasp  your  helmet  and  your  spear  ! 

Let  each  one  look  upon  her  shield  as  the  ruler  of  War. 

Come  forth  in  your  purple  robes,  sound  your  silver-tongue 
trumpets ; 

Rush  upon  the  enemy  with  your  thousand  and  thousands 
of  burnished  spears ! 

Let  your  voices  ring  through  the  Universe,  "Liberty, 
liberty  for  the  stars."  Thunder  it  on  the  ears  of  the 
guilty  and  the  doomed  ! 

Sound  it  with  the  crash  of  Heaven's  wrath  to  the  hearts 
of  branded — God-cursed  things  who  have  stood  up 
and  scorned  their  Maker  with  laughing  curses,  as 
they  dashed  the  crown  from  her  brow,  and  hurled  her 
into  Hell. 

Pray  ye  not  for  them,  hills  !  Heed  ye  not,  O  winds,  their 
penitence  is  feigned ! 

Let  your  voices,  O  floods,  be  hushed !  stars,  close  your 
mighty  flanks,  and  battle  on  them  1 


46  BATTLE  OF  THE  STARS. 

Chain  them  down  close  to  the  fire  ! 

They  were  merciless,  bind  their  blood-stained  hands. 

They  are  fiends,  and  if  ye  loose  them  they  will  tear  chil 
dren  from  their  mothers,  wives  from  their  husbands, 
sisters  from  their  brothers,  daughters  from  their 
fathers. 

And  these  fiends,  these  children  of  eternal  damnation, 
these  men  will  tear  souls  from  bodies,  and  then 
smear  their  hands  with  blood,  and  laugh  as  they 
sprinkle  it  in  the  dead  up-turned  faces  of  their 
victims. 

It  is  Atha  thy  leader  that  calls  to  you. 

Beat  them  down,  beat  them  down. 

I  know  these  war-dogs. 

They  strangled  my  warrior,  Eros  ! 

Warrior  of  my  soul ; 

Warrior  of  the  strong  race  of  Eagles  I 

His  crimson  life  crushed  out  on  the  white  sails  of  a  ship. 

Battle  them  down  to  dust. 

Battle  them  back  into  their  own  slimy  souls  ; 

Battle  them,  ye  starry  armies  of  Heaven,  down  into  the 
silent  sea  of  their  own  blood ; 

Battle  on,  the  wind  is  with  ye  ; 

Battle  on,  the  sun  is  with  ye ; 

Battle  on,  the  waves  are  with  ye ; 

The  Angels  are  with  ye ; 

God  is  with  us ! 


MYSELF. 

"  La  patience  est  amere ;  mais  le  fruit  en  est  doux  I" 
I. 

A  WAY  down  into  the  shadowy  depths  of  the  Real  I 
once  lived. 

I  thought  that  to  seem  was  to  be. 

But  the  waters  of  Marah  were  beautiful,  yet  they  were 
bitter. 

I  waited,  and  hoped,  and  prayed  ; 

Counting  the  heart-throbs  and  the  tears  that  answered 
them. 

Through  my  earnest  pleadings  for  the  True,  I  learned 
that  the  mildest  mercy  of  life  was  a  smiling  sneer ; 

And  that  the  business  of  the  world  was  to  lash  with 
vengeance  all  who  dared  to  be  what  their  God  had  made 
them. 

Smother  back  tears  to  the  red  blood  of  the  heart  1 

Crush  out  things  called  souls  ! 

No  room  for  them  here  ! 

II. 

Now  I  gloss  my  pale  face  with  laughter,  and  sail  my 
voice  on  with  the  tide. 

47 


48  MYSELF. 

Decked  in  jewels  and  lace,  I  laugh  beneath  the  gas 
light's  glare,  and  quaff  the  purple  wine. 

But  the  minor-keyed  soul  is  standing  naked  and  hungry 
upon  one  of  Heaven's  high  hills  of  light 

Standing  and  waiting  for  the  blood  of  the  feast ! 

Starving  for  one  poor  word  1 

Waiting  for  God  to  launch  out  some  beacon  on  the 
boundless  shores  of  this  Night 

Shivering  for  the  uprising  of  some  soft  wing  under 
which  it  may  creep,  lizard-like,  to  warmth  and  rest 

Waiting  !     Starving  and  shivering  1 


III. 


Still  I  trim  my  white  bosom  with  crimson  roses ;  for 
none  shall  see  the  thorns. 

I  bind  my  aching  brow  with  a  jeweled  crown,  that  none 
shall  see  the  iron  one  beneath. 

My  silver-sandaled  feet  keep  impatient  time  to  the  music, 
because  I  cannot  be  calm. 

I  laugh  at  earth's  passion -fever  of  Love;  yet  I  know 
that  God  is  near  to  the  soul  on  the  hill,  and  hears  the 
ceaseless  ebb  and  flow  of  a  hopeless  love,  through  all  my 
laughter. 

But  if  I  can  cheat  my  heart  with  the  old  comfort,  that 
love  can  be  forgotten,  is  it  not  better  ? 

After  all,  living  is  but  to  play  a  part ! 

The  poorest  worm  would  be  a  jewel-headed  snake  if 
she  could  ! 


MYSELF.  49 

IV. 

All  this  grandeur  of  glare  and  glitter  has  its  night 
time. 

The  pallid  eyelids  must  shut  out  smiles  and  daylight 

Then  I  fold  my  cold  hands,  and  look  down  at  the  rest 
less  rivers  of  a  love  that  rushes  through  my  life. 

Unseen  and  unknown  they  tide  on  over  black  rocks  and 
chasms  of  Death. 

Oh,  for  one  sweet  word  to  bridge  their  terrible  depths  ! 

0  jealous  soul !  why  wilt  thou  crave  and  yearn  for  what 
thou  canst  not  have  ? 

And  life  is  so  long — so  long. 

V. 

With  the  daylight  comes  the  business  of  living. 
The  prayers  that  I  sent .  trembling  up  the  golden  thread 
of  hope  all  come  back  to  me. 

1  lock  them  close  in  my  bosom,  far  under  the  velvet  and 
roses  of  the  world. 

For  I  know  that  stronger  than  these  torrents  of  passion 
is  the  soul  that  hath  lifted  itself  up  to  the  hill. 

What  care  I  for  his  careless  laugh  ? 

I  do  not  sigh ;  but  I  know  that  God  hears  the  life-blood 
dripping  as  I,  too,  laugh. 

I  would  not  be  thought  a  foolish  rose,  that  flaunts  her 
red  heart  out  to  the  sun. 

Loving  is  not  living  ! 

VI. 

Yet  through  all  this  I  know  that  night  will  roll  back 


50  MYSELF, 

from  the  still,  gray  plain  of  heaven,  and  that  my  triumph 
shall  rise  sweet  with  the  dawn  ! 

When  these  mortal  mists  shall  unclothe  the  world,  then 
shall  I  be  known  as  I  am  ! 

When  I  dare  be  dead  and  buried  behind  a  wall  of 
wings,  then  shall  he  know  me  ! 

When  this  world  shall  fall,  like  some  old  ghost,  wrapped 
in  the  black  skirts  of  the  wind,  down  into  the  fathomless 
eternity  of  fire,  then  shall  souls  uprise  ! 

When  God  shall  lift  the  frozen  seal  from  struggling 
voices,  then  shall  we  speak  ! 

When  the  purple-and-gold  of  our  inner  natures  shall 
be  lighted  up  in  the  Eternity  of  Truth,  then  will  love  be 
mine  I 

/  can  wait. 


INTO    THE   DEPTHS. 


TOST— lost— lost ! 

To  me,  for  ever,  the  seat  near  the  blood  of  the 
feast 

To  me,  for  ever,  the  station  near  the  Throne  of  Love  1 
To  me,  for  ever,  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven — and  I  the 
least 

Oh,  the  least  in  love — 
The  least  in  joy — 
The  least  in  life — 
The  least  in  death— 
The  least  in  beauty — 
The  least  in  eternity. 

So  much  of  rich,  foaming,  bubbling  human  blood  drank 
down  into  the  everlasting  sea  of  Sin, 

The  jasper  gates  are  closed  on  the  crimson  highway  of 
the  clouds. 

The  Seven  Angels  stand  on  guard. 
Seven  thunders  utter  their  voices. 
And  the  angels  have  not  sealed  up  those  things  whicl" 
the  seven  thunders  have  uttered. 
I  have  pleaded  to  the  seventh  angel  for  the  little  book. 
•But  he  heedeth  me  not. 


52  INJTO    THE  DEPTHS. 

All  life  is  bitter,  not  one  drop  as  sweet  as  honey. 
And  yet  I  prophesy  before  many  people,  and  nations, 
and  tongues,  and  kings  ! 

II. 

Lost — lost — lost ! 

The  little  golden  key  which  the  first  angel  entrusted  to 
me. 

The  gates  are  closed,  and  I  may  not  enter. 

Yet  arrayed  in  folds  of  white,  these  angels  are  more 
terrible  to  me  than  the  fabled  watcher  of  the  Hesperides 
golden  treasures. 

Because  it  is  I  alone  of  all  God's  creatures  that  am  shut 
out 

For  others  the  bolts  are  withdrawn,  and  the  little  book 
unsealed. 

With  wistful  eyes,  and  longing  heart,  I  wander  in  the 
distance,  waiting  for  the  angels  to  sleep. 

Tremblingly  I  peer  through  the  gloaming  of  horrid 
shadows,  and  visions  of  wasted  moments. 

But  the  white  eyelids  of  the  angels  never  droop. 

In  vain  I  plead  to  them  that  it  was  I  who  built  the 
throne. 

In  vain  do  I  tell  them  that  it  was  I  who  gemmed  it  with 
Faith  and  Truth,  and  the  dews  of  my  life's  morn. 

In  vain  do  I  tell  them  that  they  are  my  hopes  which 
they  stand  in  solemn  guard  to  watch. 

In  vain  do  I  plead  my  right  as  queen  of  the  starry  high 
way. 

In  vain  do  I  bind  my  golden  tresses  with  the  pale  lilies 
of  the  valley. 


INTO    THE  DEPTHS.  53 

In  vain  do  I  display  to  them  my  purple  broidered  robes, 
and  the  silver  badge  of  God's  eternal  bards  that  I  wear  on 
my  white  bosom. 

In  vain  do  I  wind  my  soft  arms  around  their  silver-san 
daled  feet 

They  heed  me  not. 

But  point  to  the  whirlpool  called  the  world. 

Must  the  warm,  living,  loving  soul  a  wanderer  be  ? 
Are  all  its  yearnings  vain  ? 
Are  all  its  prayings  vain"? 

Will  there  be  no  light  to  guide  me  ? 

Will  there  be  strong  arm  at  the  helm  ? 

Must  the  full  lamp  of  life  wane  so  early? 

Ah,  I  see,  all  is  lost — lost — lost ! 

IIL 

Deep  into  the  depths  ! 

Struggling  all  the  day-time — weeping  all  the  night 
time  ! 

Writing  away  all  vitality. 

Talking  to  people,  nations,  tongues,  and  kings  that  heed 
me  not 

Cast  out  of  my  own  kingdom  on  to  the  barren  battle- 
plain  of  bloodless  life. 

A  thousand  foes  advancing  ? 

A  thousand  weapons  glancing  1 

And  I  in  the  sternest  scene  of  strife. 

Panting  wildly  in  the  race. 

Malice  and  Envy  on  the  track. 

Fleet  of  foot,  they  front  me  with  their  daggers  at  my 
breast 


54  INTO    THE  DEPTHS. 

All  heedless  of  my  tears  and  prayers,  they  tear  the 
white  flowers  from  my  brow,  and  the  olive  leaves  from  my 
breast,  and  soil  with  their  blood-marked  hands  the  broid- 
ered  robes  of  purple  beauty. 

Life's  gems  are  torn  from  me,  and  in  scattered  fragments 
around  me  lie. 

All  lost— lost— lost ! 

IV. 

Out  of  the  depths  have  I  cried  unto  thee,  O  Lord ! 

Weeping  all  the  night-time. 

Weeping  sad  and  chill  through  the  lone  woods. 

Straying  'mong  the  ghostly  trees. 

Wandering  through  the  rustling  leaves. 

Sobbing  to  the  moon,  whose  icy  light  wraps  me  like  a 
shroud. 

Leaning  on  a  hoary  rock,  praying  to  the  mocking  stars. 

With  Love's  o'erwhelming  power  startling  my  soul  like 
an  earthquake  shock. 

I  lift  my  voice  above  the  low  howl  of  the  winds  to  call 
my  Eros  to  come  and  give  me  light  and  life  once  more. 

His  broad  arms  can  raise  me  up  to  the  light,  and  his  red 
lips  can  kiss  me  back  to  life. 

I  heed  not  the  storm  of  the  world,  nor  the  clashing  of 
ts  steel. 

I  wait — wait — wait ! 

V. 

How  can  I  live  so  deep  into  the  depths  with  all  this 
wealth  of  love  ? 


INTO    THE  DEPTHS.  55 

Oh,  unspeakable,  passionate  fire  of  love  ! 
Cold  blood  heedeth  ye  not 
Cold  eyes  know  ye  not 

But  in  this  wild  soul  of  seething  passion  we  have 
warmed  together. 

I  feel  thy  lava  tide  dashing  recklessly  through  every  blue 
course ! 

Grand,  beauteous  Love ! 

Let  us  live  alone,  far  from  the  world  of  battle  and  pain, 
where  we  can  forget  this  grief  that  has  plunged  me  into 
the  depths. 

We  will  revel  in  ourselves. 

Come,  Eros,  thou  creator  of  this  divine  passion,  come 
and  lay  my  weary  head  on  your  bosom. 

Draw  me  close  up  to  your  white  breast  and  lull  me  to 
sleep. 

Smooth  back  the  damp,  tangled  mass  from  my  pale 
brow. 

I  am  so  weary  of  battle — 
Take  this  heavy  shield. 
I  am  so  weary  of  toil — 
Loosen  my  garments. 

Now,  wrap  me  close  in  your  bosom  to  rest 
Closer — closer  still ! 
Let  your  breath  warm  my  cold  face. 
This  is  life — this  is  love  ! 
Oh,  kiss  me  till  I  sleep — till  I  sleep — I  sleep. 


OH- 


SALE   OF   SOULS. 


j  I  am  wild — wild  ! 

Angels  of  the  weary-hearted,  come  to  thy  child. 
Spread  your  white  wings  over  me  ! 

Tenderly,  tenderly, 
Lovingly,  lovingly, 
Plead  for  me,  plead  for  me  I 

IL 

Souls  for  sale  !  souls  for  sale  ! 
Souls  for  gold  !  who'll  buy  ? 

In  the  pent-up  city,  through  the  wild  rush  and  beat  of 
human  hearts,  I  hear  this  unceasing,  haunting  cry : 
Souls  for  sale  !  souls  for  sale  1 
Through  mist  and  gloom, 
Through  hate  and  love, 
Through  peace  and  strife, 
Through  wrong  and  right, 
Through  life  and  death, 

The  hoarse  voice  of  the  world  echoes  up  the  cold  gray 
sullen  river  of  life. 

On,  on,  on ! 
56 


SALE   OF  SOULS.  57 

No  silence  until  it  shall  have  reached  the  solemn  sea  of 
God's  for  ever ; 

No  rest,  no  sleep  ; 

Waking  through  the  thick  gloom  of  midnight,  to  hear  the 
damning  cry  as  it  mingles  and  clashes  with  the  rough 
clang  of  gold. 

Poor  Heart,  poor  Heart, 
Alas  !  I  know  thy  fears. 

III. 

The  hollow  echoes  that  the  iron-shod  feet  of  the  years 
throw  back  on  the  sea  of  change  still  vibrate  through 
the  grave-yard  of  prayers  and  tears ; — 
Prayers  that  fell  unanswered, 
Tears  that  followed  hopelessly. 

But  pale  Memory  comes  back  through  woe  and  shame 
and  strife,  bearing  on  her  dark  wings  their  buried 
voices ; 

Like  frail  helpless  barks,  they  wail  through  the  black  sea 
of  the  crowded  city, 

Mournfully,  mournfully. 

IV. 

Poor  Heart,  what  do  the  waves  say  to  thee  ? 

The  sunshine  laughed  on  the  hill  sides. 

The  link  of  years  that  wore  a  golden  look  bound  me  to 
woman-life  by  the  sweet  love  of  my  Eros,  and  the 
voice  of  one  who  made  music  to  call  me  mother. 

Weak  Heart,  weak  Heart ! 


58  SALE  OF  SOULS. 

Oh,  now  I  reel  madly  on  through  clouds  and  storms  and 
night 

The  hills  have  grown  dark, 

They  lack  the  grace  of  my  golden-haired  child,  to  climb 
their  steep  sides,  and  bear  me  their  smiles  in  the 
blue-eyed  violets  of  our  spring-time. 

Sad  Heart,  what  do  the  hills  say  to  thee  ? 

They  speak  of  my  Eros,  and  how  happily  in  the  dim  dis 
colored  hours  we  dreamed  away  the  glad  light,  and 
watched  the  gray  robes  of  night  as  she  came  through 
the  valley,  and  ascended  on  her  way  to  the  clouds. 
Kisses  of  joy,  and  kisses  of  life, 
Kisses  of  heaven,  and  kisses  of  earth, 

Clinging  and  clasping  white  hands  ; 

Mingling  of  soft  tresses ; 

Murmurings  of  love,  and  murmurings  of  life, 

With  the  warm  blood  leaping  up  in  joy  to  answer  its 
music ; 

The  broad  shelter  of  arms  wherein  dwelt  peace  and  con 
tent,  so  sweet  to  love. 

All,  all  were  mine. 

Loving  Heart,  loving  Heart, 

Hush  the  wailing  and  sobbing  voice  of  the  past; 

Sleep  in  thy  rivers  of  the  soul, 
Poor  Heart 


V. 

Souls  for  sale ! 

The  wild  cry  awoke  the  god  of  ambition,  that  slumbered 
in  the  bosom  of  Eros  ; 


SALE   OF  SOULS.  59 

From  out  the  tents  he  brought  forth  his  shield  and  spear, 

to  see  them  smile  back  at  the  sun ; 

Clad  in  armor,  he  went  forth  to  the  cities  of  the  world, 
where  brave  men  battle  for  glory,  and  souls  are  bar 
tered  for  gold. 
Weeping  and  fearing,  haggard  and  barefoot,  I  clung  to  him 

with  my  fainting  child. 
Weary  miles  of  land  and  water  lay  in  their  waste  around 

us, 

We  reached  the  sea  of  the  city. 
Marble  towers  lifted  their  proud  heads  beyond  the  scope 

of  vision. 

Wild  music  mingled  with  laughter. 

The  tramp  of  hoofs  on  the  iron  streets,  and  the  cries  of  the 
drowning,  and  the  curses  of  the  damned  were  all  heard 
in  that  Babel,  where  the  souls  of  men  can  be  bought 
for  gold. 

All  the  air  seemed  dark  with  evil  wings. 
And  all  that  was  unholy  threw  their  shadows  everywhere, 
Shadows  on  the  good, 
Shadows  on  the  bad, 
Shadows  on  the  lowly, 
Shadows  on  the  lost ! 

All  tossing  upon  the  tide  of  rushing,  restless  destiny ; 
Upon  all  things  written  : 

Souls  for  sale ! 

Lost  Heart,  lost  Heart  ! 

VI. 
A  soul  mantled  in  glory,  and  sold  to  the  world ; 


60  SALE   OF  SOULS. 

O  horrible  sale  ! 
O  seal  of  blood  ! 
Give  back  my  Eros. 

His  bowstring  still  sounds  on  the  blast,  yet  his  arrow  was 
broken  in  the  fall. 

Oh  leave  me  not  on  the  wreck  of  this  dark-bosomed  ship 
while  Eros  lies  pale  on  the  rocks  of  the  world. 

Driven  before  the  furious  gale  by  the  surging  ocean's 
strife; 

The  strong  wind  lifting  up  the  sounding  sail,  and  whist 
ling  through  the  ropes  and  masts;  waves  lash  the 
many-colored  sides  of  the  ship,  dash  her  against  the 
oozy  rocks. 

The  strength  of  old  ocean  roars. 

The  low  booming  of  the  signal  gun  is  heard  above  the 
tempest 

Oh  how  many  years  must  roll  their  slow  length  along  my 
life,  ere  the  land  be  in  sight ! 

When  will  the  morning  dawn  ? 

When  will  the  clouds  be  light  ? 

When  will  the  storm  be  hushed  ? 

It  is  so  dark  and  cold. 

Angels  of  the  weary-hearted,  come  to  your  child  1 

Build  your  white  wings  around  me. 
Tenderly,  tenderly, 
Pity  me,  pity  me. 


ONE   YEAR  AGO. 

T  N  feeling  I  was  but  a  child, 

When  first  we  met — one  year  ago, 
As  free  and  guileless  as  the  bird, 

That  roams  the  dreary  woodland  through. 

My  heart  was  all  a  pleasant  world 
Of  sunbeams  dewed  with  April  tears  : 

Life's  brightest  page  was  turned  to  me, 
And  naught  I  read  of  doubts  or  fears. 

We  met — we  loved — one  year  ago, 
Beneath  the  stars  of  summer  skies  ; 

Alas  !  I  knew  not  then,  as  now, 
The  darkness  of  life's  mysteries. 

You  took  my  hand — one  year  ago, 
Beneath  the  azure  dome  above, 

And  gazing  on  the  stars  you  told 
The  trembling  story  of  your  love. 

I  gave  to  you — one  year  ago, 
The  only  jewel  that  was  mine ; 

My  heart  took  off  her  lonely  crown, 
And  all  her  riches  gave  to  thine. 

61 


62  ONE    YEAR  AGO. 

You  loved  me,  too,  when  first  we  met, 
Your  tender  kisses  told  me  so. 

How  changed  you  are  from  what  you  were 
In  life  and  love — one  year  ago. 

With  mocking  words  and  cold  neglect, 
My  truth  and  passion  are  repaid, 

And  of  a  soul,  once  fresh  with  love, 
A  dreary  desert  you  have  made. 

Why  did  you  fill  my  youthful  life 

With  such  wild  dreams  of  hope  and  bliss  ? 

Why  did  you  say  you  loved  me  then, 
If  it  were  all  to  end  in  this  ? 

You  robbed  me  of  my  faith  and  trust 
In  all  Life's  beauty — Love  and  Truth, 

You  left  me  nothing — nothing  save 
A  hopeless,  blighted,  dreamless  youth. 

Strike  if  you  will,  and  let  the  stroke 
Be  heavy  as  my  weight  of  woe  ; 

I  shall  not  shrink,  my  heart  is  cold, 
'Tis  broken  since  one  year  ago. 


GENIUS. 

"  Where'er  there's  a  life  to  be  kindled  by  love, 

Wherever  a  soul  to  inspire, 
Strike  this  key-note  of  God  that  trembles  above 
Night's  silver-tongued  voices  of  fire." 


s  power. 

The  power  that  grasps  in  the  universe,  that  dives 
out  beyond  space,  and  grapples  with  the  starry  worlds  of 
heaven. 

If  genius  achieves  nothing,  shows  us  no  results,  it  is  so 
much  the  less  genius. 

The  man  who  is  constantly  fearing  a  lion  in  his  path  is 
a  coward. 

The  man  or  woman  whom  excessive  caution  holds  back 
from  striking  the  anvil  with  earnest  endeavor,  is  poor  and 
cowardly  of  purpose. 

The  required  step  must  be  taken  to  reach  the  goal, 
though  a  precipice  be  the  result. 

Work  must  be  done,  and  the  result  left  to  God. 

The  soul  that  is  in  earnest,  will  not  stop  to  count  the 
cost. 

Circumstances  cannot  control  genius  :  it  will  nestle  with 
them  :  its  power  will  bend  and  break  them  to  its  path. 

This  very  audacity  is  divine. 

63 


64  GENIUS. 

Jesus  of  Nazareth  did  not  ask  the  consent  of  the  high 
priests  in  the  temple  when  he  drove  out  the  "money 
changers  ;"  but,  impelled  by  inspiration,  he  knotted  the 
cords  and  drove  them  hence. 

Genius  will  find  room  for  itself,  or  it  is  none. 

Men  and  women,  in  all  grades  of  life,  do  their  utmost. 

If  they  do  little,  it  is  because  they  have  no  capacity  to 
do  more. 

I  hear  people  speak  of  "  unfortunate  genius,"  of  "  poets 
who  never  penned  their  inspirations  ;"  that 

"  Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest ;" 

of  "unappreciated  talent,"  and  "malignant  stars,"  and 
other  contradictory  things. 

It  is  all  nonsense. 

Where  power  exists,  it  cannot  be  suppressed  any  more 
than  the  earthquake  can  be  smothered. 

As  well  attempt  to  seal  up  the  crater  of  Vesuvius  as  to 
hide  God's  given  power  of  the  soul. 

"  You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  high  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise 
When  they  are  fretten  with  the  gusts  of  heaven," 

as  to  hush  the  voice  of  genius. 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  unfortunate  genius. 

If  a  man  or  woman  is  fit  for  work,  God  appoints  the 
field. 

He  does  more ;  He  points  to  the  earth  with  her  moun 
tains,  oceans,  and  cataracts,  and  says  to  man,  "Be 
great  r 


GENIUS.  65 

He  points  to  the  eternal  dome  of  heaven  and  its  blazing 
worlds,  and  says  :  "  Bound  out  thy  life  with  beauty." 

He  points  to  the  myriads  of  down-trodden,  suffering 
men  and  women,  and  says :  "  Work  with  me  for  the  re 
demption  of  these,  my  children." 

He  lures,  and  incites,  and  thrusts  greatness  upon  men, 
and  they  will  not  take  the  gift. 

Genius,  on  the  contrary,  loves  toil,  impediment,  and 
poverty ;  for  from  these  it  gains  its  strength,  throws  off  the 
shadows,  and  lifts  its  proud  head  to  immortality. 

Neglect  is  but  the  fiat  to  an  undying  future. 

To  be  popular  is  to  be  endorsed  in  the  To-day  and  for. 
gotten  in  the  To-morrow. 

It  is  the  mess  of  pottage  that  alienates  the  birth 
right. 

Genius  that  succumbs  to  misfortune,  that  allows  itself  to 
be  blotted  by  the  slime  of  slander — and  other  serpents 
that  infest  society — is  so  much  the  less  genius. 

The  weak  man  or  woman  who  stoops  to  whine  over 
neglect,  and  poverty,  and  the  snarls  of  the  world,  gives 
the  sign  of  his  or  her  own  littleness. 

Genius  is  power. 

The  eternal  power  that  can  silence  worlds  with  its 
voice,  and  battle  to  the  death  ten  thousand  armed  Her 
cules. 

Then  make  way  for  this  God-crowned  Spirit  of  Night, 
that  was  born  in  that  Continuing  City,  but  lives  in  lowly 
and  down-trodden  souls ! 

Fling  out  the  banner ! 

Its  broad  folds  of  sunshine  will  wave  over  turret  and 
dome,  and  over  the  thunder  of  oceans  on  to  eternity. 


66  GENIUS. 

"  Fling  it  out,  fling  it  out  o'er  the  din  of  the  world ! 

Make  way  for  this  banner  of  flame, 
That  streams  from  the  mast-head  of  ages  unfurled, 

And  inscribed  by  the  deathless  in  name. 
And  thus  through  the  years  of  eternity's  flight. 

This  insignia  of  soul  shall  prevail, 
The  centre  of  glory,  the  focus  of  light; 

O  Genius!  proud  Genius,  all  hail!" 


DRIFTS   THAT   BAR  MY   DOOR. 


f~\  ANGELS  !  will  ye  never  sweep  the  drifts  from  my 
door? 

Will  ye  never  wipe  the  gathering  rust  from  the  hinges  ? 

How  long  must  I  plead  and  cry  in  vain  ? 

Lift  back  the  iron  bars,  and  lead  me  hence. 

Is  there  not  a  land  of  peace  beyond  my  door  ? 

Oh,  lead  me  to  it — give  me  rest — release  me  from  this 
unequal  strife. 

Heaven  can  attest  that  I  fought  bravely  when  the  heavy 
blows  fell  fast 

Was  it  my  sin  that  strength  failed  ? 

Was  it  my  sin  that  the  battle  was  in  vain  ? 

Was  it  my  sin  that  I  lost  the  prize  ?  I  do  not  sorrow 
for  all  the  bitter  pain  and  blood  it  cost  me. 

Why  do  ye  stand  sobbing  in  the  sunshine  ? 

I  cannot  weep. 

There  is  no  sunlight  in  this  dark  cell.  I  am  starving 
for  light 

O  angels  I  sweep  the  drifts  away — unbar  my  door  ! 

II. 

Oh,  is  this  all  ? 
Is  there  nothing  more  of  life  ? 

67 


68  DRIFTS   THAT  BAR  MY  DOOR. 

See  how  dark  and  cold  my  cell. 

The  pictures  on  the  walls  are  covered  with  mould. 

The  earth-floor  is  slimy  with  my  wasting  blood 

The  embers  are  smouldering  in  the  ashes. 

The  lamp  is  dimly  flickering,  and  will  soon  starve  for 
oil  in  this  horrid  gloom. 

My  wild  eyes  paint  shadows  on  the  walls. 

And  I  hear  the  poor  ghost  of  my  lost  love  moaning  and 
sobbing  without 

Shrieks  of  my  unhappiness  are  borne  to  me  on  the 
wings  of  the  wind. 

I  sit  cowering  in  fear,  with  my  tattered  garments  close 
around  my  choking  throat 

I  move  my  pale  lips  to  pray ;  but  my  soul  has  lost  her 
wonted  power. 

Faith  is  weak. 

Hope  has  laid  her  whitened  corse  upon  my  bosom. 

The  lamp  sinks  lower  and  lower.  O  angels !  sweep 
the  drifts  away — unbar  my  door  ! 

III. 

Angels,  is  this  my  reward  ? 

Is  this  the  crown  ye  promised  to  set  down  on  the  fore 
heads  of  the  loving — the  suffering — the  deserted? 

Where  are  the  sheaves  I  toiled  for  ? 

Where  the  golden  grain  ye  promised  ? 

These  are  but  withered  leaves. 

Oh,  is  this  all  ? 

Meekly  I  have  toiled  and  spun  the  fleece. 

All  the  work  ye  assigned,  my  willing  hands  have  accom 
plished. 


DRIFTS    THAT  BAR   MY  DOOR.          69 

See  how  thin  they  are,  and  how  they  bleed. 
Ah  me !  what  meagre  pay,  e'en  when  the  task  is  over ! 
My  fainting  child,  whose  golden  head  graces  e'en  this 
dungeon,  looks  up  to  me  and  pleads  for  life. 

0  God  !  my  heart  is  breaking ! 

Despair  and  Death  have  forced  their  skeleton  forms 
through  the  grated  window  of  my  cell,  and  stand  clamor 
ing  for  their  prey. 

The  lamp  is  almost  burnt  out. 

Angels,  sweep  the  drifts  away — unbar  my  door ! 

IV. 

Life  is  a  lie,  and  Love  a  cheat. 

There  is  a  graveyard  in  my  poor  heart — dark,  heaped-up 
graves,  from  which  no  flowers  spring. 

The  walls  are  so  high,  that  the  trembling  wings  of  birds 
do  break  ere  they  reach  the  summit,  and  they  fall, 
wounded,  and  die  in  my  bosom. 

1  wander  'mid  the  gray  old  tombs,  and  talk  with  the 
ghosts  of  my  buried  hopes. 

They  tell  me  of  my  Eros,  and  how  they  fluttered  around 
him,  bearing  sweet  messages  of  my  love,  until  one  day, 
with  his  strong  arm,  he  struck  them  dead  at  his  feet. 

Since  then,  these  poor  lonely  ghosts  have  haunted  me 
night  and  day,  for  it  was  I  who  decked  them  in  my 
crimson  heart-tides,  and  sent  them  forth  in  chariots  of 
fire. 

Every  breath  of  wind  bears  me  their  shrieks  and 
groans. 

I  hasten  to  their  graves,  and  tear  back  folds  and  folds 


70  DRIFTS   THAT  BAR  MY  DOOR. 

of  their  shrouds,  and  try  to  pour  into  their  cold,  nerveless 
veins  the  quickening  tide  of  life  once  more. 

Too  late — too  late  ! 

Despair  hath  driven  back  Death,  and  clasps  me  in  his 
black  arms. 

And  the  lamp  !     See,  the  lamp  is  dying  out ! 

0  angels  !  sweep  the  drifts  from  my  door  ! — lift  up  the 
bars ! 

V. 

Oh,  let  me  sleep. 

1  close  my  weary  eyes  to  think — to  dream. 
Is  this  what  dreams  are  woven  of? 

I  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  with  my  shivering 
child  strained  to  my  bare  bosom. 

A  yawning  chasm  lies  below.  My  trembling  feet  are  on 
the  brink. 

I  hear  again  his  voice ;  but  he  reacheth  not  out  his  hand 
to  save  me. 

Why  can  I  not  move  my  lips  to  pray  ? 

They  are  cold. 

My  soul  is  dumb,  too. 

Death  hath  conquered ! 

I  feel  his  icy  fingers  moving  slowly  along  my  heart 
strings. 

How  cold  and  stiff ! 

The  ghosts  of  my  dead  hopes  are  closing  around  me. 

They  stifle  me. 

They  whisper  that  Eros  has  come  back  to  me. 

But  I  only  see  a  skeleton  wrapped  in  blood-stained  cere 
ments. 


DRIFTS   THAT  BAR  MY  DOOR.  71 

There  are  no  lips  to  kiss  me  back  to  life. 

O  ghosts  of  Love,  move  back — give  me  air ! 

Ye  smell  of  the  dusty  grave. 

Ye  have  pressed  your  cold  hands  upon  my  eyes  until 
they  are  eclipsed. 

The  lamp  has  burnt  out 

O  angels  !  be  quick  !  Sweep  tiie  drifts  away ! — unbar 
my  door ! 

Oh,  light  1  light ! 


ASPIRATION. 

TDOOR,  impious  Soul !  that  fixes  its  high  hopes 

In  the  dim  distance,  on  a  throne  of  clouds, 
And  from  the  morning's  mist  would  make  the  ropes 

To  draw  it  up  amid  acclaim  of  crowds — 
Beware  !     That  soaring  path  is  lined  with  shrouds  ; 

And  he  who  braves  it,  though  of  sturdy  breath, 
May  meet,  half  way,  the  avalanche  and  death  ! 

O  poor  young  Soul ! — whose  year-devouring  glance 

Fixes  in  ecstasy  upon  a  star, 
Whose  feverish  brilliance  looks  a  part  of  earth, 

Yet  quivers  where  the  feet  of  angels  are, 
And  seems  the  future  crown  in  realms  afar — 

Beware  !     A  spark  thou  art,  and  dost  but  see 
Thine  own  reflection  in  Eternity  ! 
72 


MISERIMUS. 

"  Sounding  through  the  silent  dimness 

Where  I  faint  and  weary  lay, 

Spake  a  poet :  '  I  will  lead  thee 

To  the  land  of  song  to-day.'  " 


f~\  BARDS  !  weak  heritors  of  passion  and  of  pain  ! 
Dwellers  in  the  shadowy  Palace  of  Dreams  ! 

With  your  unmated  souls  flying  insanely  at  the  stars ! 

Why  have  you  led  me  lonely  and  desolate  to  the  Death 
less  Hill  of  Song  ? 

You  promised  that  I  should  ring  trancing  shivers  of 
rapt  melody  down  to  the  dumb  earth. 

You  promised  that  its  echoes  should  vibrate  till  Time's 
circles  met  in  old  Eternity. 

You  promised  that  I  should  gather  the  stars  like  blos 
soms  to  my  white  bosom. 

You  promised  that  I  should  create  a  new  moon  of 
Poesy. 

You  promised  that  the  wild  wings  of  my  soul  should 
shimmer  through  the  dusky  locks  of  the  clouds,  like 
burning  arrows,  down  into  the  deep  heart  of  the  dim 
world. 

But,  O  Bards  !  sentinels  on  the  Lonely  Hill,  why  breaks 
there  yet  no  Day  to  me  ? 

73 


74  MISERIMUS. 

II. 

O  lonely  watchers  for  the  Light !  how  long  must  I  grope 
with  my  dead  eyes  in  the  sand  ? 

Only  the  red  fire  of  Genius,  that  narrows  up  life's 
chances  to  the  black  path  that  crawls  on  to  the  dizzy 
clouds. 

The  wailing  music  that  spreads  its  pinions  to  the 
tremble  of  the  wind,  has  crumbled  off  to  silence. 

From  the  steep  ideal  the  quivering  soul  falls  in  its 
lonely  sorrow  like  an  unmated  star  from  the  blue  heights 
of  Heaven  into  the  dark  sea. 

O  Genius  !  is  this  thy  promise  ? 

O  Bards  1  is  this  all  ? 


A  MEMORY. 

T  SEE  her  yet,  that  dark-eyed  one, 

Whose  bounding  heart  God  folded  up 
In  His,  as  shuts  when  day  is  done, 

Upon  the  elf  the  blossom's  cup. 
On  many  an  hour  like  this  we  met, 

And  as  my  lips  did  fondly  greet  her, 
I  blessed  her  as  love's  amulet : 

Earth  hath  no  treasure,  dearer,  sweeter. 

The  stars  that  look  upon  the  hill, 

And  beckon  from  their  homes  at  night, 
Are  soft  and  beautiful,  yet  still 

Not  equal  to  her  eyes  of  light 
They  have  the  liquid  glow  of  earth, 

The  sweetness  of  a  summer  even, 
As  if  some  Angel  at  their  birth 

Had  dipped  them  in  the  hues  of  Heaven. 

They  may  not  seem  to  others  sweet, 

Nor  radiant  with  the  beams  above, 
When  first  their  soft,  sad  glances  meet 

The  eyes  of  those  not  born  for  love ; 
Yet  when  on  me  their  tender  beams 

Are  turned,  beneath  love's  wide  control, 
Each  soft,  sad  orb  of  beauty  seems 

To  look  through  mine  into  my  soul. 

75 


76  A  MEMORY. 

I  see  her  now  that  dark-eyed  one, 

Whose  bounding  heart  God  folded  up 
In  His,  as  shuts  when  day  is  done, 

Upon  the  elf  the  blossom's  cup. 
Too  late  we  met,  the  burning  brain, 

The  aching  heart  alone  can  tell, 
How  filled  our  souls  of  death  and  pain 

When  came  the  last,  sad  word,  Farewell! 


HEMLOCK   IN  THE   FURROWS. 

I. 

Q  CROWNLESS  soul  of  Ishmael ! 

Uplifting  and  unfolding  the  white  tent  of  dreams 
against  the  sunless  base  of  eternity  ! 

Looking  up  through  thy  dumb  desolation  for  white 
hands  to  reach  out  over  the  shadows,  downward,  from  the 
golden  bastions  of  God's  eternal  Citadel ! 

Praying  for  Love  to  unloose  the  blushing  bindings  of 
his  nimble  shaft  and  take  thee  up  to  his  fullest  fruition  I 

Poor  Soul !  hast  thou  no  prophecy  to  gauge  the  distance 
betwixt  thee  and  thy  crown  ? 

TTiy  crown  ? 

Alas  !  there  is  none. 

Only  a  golden-rimmed  shadow  that  went  before  thee, 
marking  in  its  tide  barren  shoals  and  dust. 

At  last  resting  its  bright  length  down  in  the  valley  of 
tears. 

Foolish  soul !  let  slip  the  dusty  leash. 

Cease  listening  along  the  borders  of  a  wilderness  for  the 
lost  echoes  of  life. 

Drift  back  through  the  scarlet  light  of  Memory  into  the 
darkness  once  more. 

A  corpse  hath  not  power  to  feel  the  tying  of  its  hands. 

77 


78  HEMLOCK  IN  THE  FURROWS. 

II. 

To-night,  O  Soul !  shut  off  thy  little  rimmings  of  Hope, 
and  let  us  go  back  to  our  hemlock  that  sprang  up  in  the 
furrows. 

Let  us  go  back  with  bleeding  feet  and  try  to  break  up 
the  harvestless  ridges  where  we  starved. 

Let  us  go  down  to  the  black  sunset  whose  wings  of  fire 
burnt  out  thy  flowery  thickets  of  Day,  and  left  a  Night  to 
swoop  down  the  lonesome  clouds  to  thee. 

Go  back  to  the  desolate  time  when  the  dim  stars  looked 
out  from  Heaven,  filmy  and  blank,  like  eyes  in  the  wide 
front  of  some  dead  beast 

Go,  press  thy  nakedness  to  the  burnt,  bare  rocks,  under 
whose  hot,  bloodless  ribs  the  River  of  Death  runs  black 
with  human  sorrow. 

To-night,  O  Soul !  fly  back  through  all  the  grave-yards 
of  thy  Past 

Fly  back  to  them  this  night  with  thy  fretful  wings,  even 
though  their  bloody  breadth  must  wrestle  long  against 
Hell's  hollow  bosom ! 

III. 

Jealous  Soul ! 

The  stars  that  are  trembling  forth  their  silent  messages 
to  the  hills  have  none  for  thee  ! 

The  mother-moon  that  so  lovingly  reacheth  down  her 
arms  of  light  heedeth  not  thy  Love  ! 

See,  the  pale  pinions  that  thou  hast  pleaded  for  gather 
themselves  up  into  rings  and  then  slant  out  to  the  dust ! 

The  passion-flowers  lift  up  their  loving  faces  and  open 


HEMLOCK  IN  THE  FURROWS.  79 

their  velvet  lips  to  the  baptism  of  Love,  but  heed  not  thy 
warm  kisses ! 

Shut  out  all  this  brightness  that  hath  God's  Beauty  and 
liveth  back  the  silence  of  His  Rest. 

Cease  knocking  at  the  starry  gate  of  the  wondrous 
realm  of  Song. 

Hush  away  this  pleading  and  this  praying. 

Go  back  to  thy  wail  of  fetter  and  chain  ! 

Go  back  to  thy  night  of  loving  in  vain  ! 

IV. 

O  weak  Soul !  let  us  follow  the  heavy  hearse  that  bore 
our  old  Dream  out  past  the  white-horned  Daylight  of 
Love. 

Let  thy  pale  Dead  come  up  from  their  furrows  of 
winding-sheets  to  mock  thy  prayers  with  what  thy  days 
might  have  been. 

Let  the  Living  come  back  and  point  out  the  shadows 
they  swept  o'er  the  disk  of  thy  morning  star. 

Have  thou  speech  with  them  for  the  story  of  its  swim 
ming  down  in  tremulous  nakedness  to  the  Red  Sea  of 
the  Past. 

Go  back  and  grapple  with  thy  lost  Angels  that  stand  in 
terrible  judgment  against  thee. 

Seek  thou  the  bloodless  skeleton  once  hugged  to  thy 
depths. 

Hath  it  grown  warmer  under  thy  passionate  kissings  ? 

Or,  hath  it  closed  its  seeming  wings  and  shrunk  its 
white  body  down  to  a  glistening  coil  ? 

Didst  thou  wait  the  growth  of  fangs  to  front  the  arrows 
of  Love's  latest  peril  ? 


So  HEMLOCK  IN   THE  FURROWS. 

Didst  them  not  see  a  black,  hungry  vulture  wheeling 
down  low  to  the  white-bellied  coil  where  thy  Heaven  had 
once  based  itself? 

O  blind  Soul  of  mine  ! 

V. 

Blind,  blind  with  tears  ! 

Not  for  thee  shall  Love  climb  the  Heaven  of  thy 
columned  Hopes  to  Eternity  ! 

Under  the  silver  shadow  of  the  cloud  waits  no  blushing 
star  thy  tryst 

Didst  thou  not  see  the  pale,  widowed  West  loose  her 
warm  arms  and  slide  the  cold  burial  earth  down  upon  Ihe 
bare  face  of  thy  sun  ? 

Gazing  upon  a  shoal  of  ashes,  thou  hast  lost  the  way 
that  struck  upon  the  heavy,  obstructive  valves  of  the 
grave  to  thy  Heaven. 

Mateless  thou  needs  must  vaguely  feel  along  the  dark, 
cold  steeps  of  Night 

Hath  not  suffering  made  thee  wise  ? 

When,  oh  when  ? 

VI. 

Go  down  to  the  black  brink  of  Death  and  let  its  cool 
waters  press  up  to  thy  weary  feet 

See  if  its  trembling  waves  will  shatter  the  grand  repeat 
ing  of  thy  earth-star. 

See  if  the  eyes  that  said  to  thee  their  speechless  Love 
so  close  will  reach  thee  from  this  sorrowful  continent  of 
Life. 


HEMLOCK  IN  THE  FURROWS.  81 

See  if  the  red  hands  that  seamed  thy  shroud  will  come 
around  thy  grave. 

Then,  O  Soul !  thou  mayst  drag  them  to  the  very  edges 
of  the  Death-pit,  and  shake  off  their  red  shadows  ! 

Thy  strong  vengeance  may  then  bind  the  black-winged 
crew  down  level  with  their  beds  of  fire  I 

VII. 

But  wait,  wait ! 

Take  up  the  ruined  cup  of  Life  that  struck  like  a 
planet  through  the  dark,  and  shone  clear  and  full  as  we 
starved  for  the  feast  within. 

Go  down  to  the  black  offings  of  the  Noiseless  Sea,  and 
wait,  poor  Soul ! 

Measure  down  the  depth  of  thy  bitterness  and  wait ! 

Bandage  down  with  the  grave-clothes  the  pulses  of  thy 
dying  life  and  wait ! 

Wail  up  thy  wild,  desolate  echoes  to  the  pitying  arms 
of  God  and  wait ! 

Wait,  wait ! 


HEAR,  O  ISRAEL! 

{From  the  Hebrew.) 

"  And  they  shall  be  my  people,  and  I  will  be  their  God."— JKRKMIAH 
xxxii.  38. 


TJTEAR,  O  Israel!  and  plead  my  cause  against  the 

ungodly  nation ! 

'Midst  the  terrible  conflict  of  Love  and  Peace,  I  de 
parted  from  thee,  my  people,  and  spread  my  tent  of  many 
colors  in  the  land  of  Egypt 

In  their  crimson  and  fine  linen  I  girded  my  white  form. 
Sapphires  gleamed  their  purple  light  from  out  the  dark 
ness  of  my  hair. 

The  silver  folds  of  their  temple  foot-cloth  was  spread 
beneath  my  sandaled  feet. 

Thus  I  slumbered  through  the  daylight. 
Slumbered  'midst  the  vapor  of  sin, 
Slumbered  'midst  the  battle  and  din, 
Wakened  'midst  the  strangle  of  breath, 
Wakened  'midst  the  struggle  of  death  ! 

II. 

Hear,  O  Israel !  my  people — to  thy  goodly  tents  do  I 
return  with  unstained  hands. 


HEAR,  O  ISRAEL!  83 

Like  as  the  harts  for  the  water-brooks,  in  thirst,  do  pant 
and  bray,  so  pants  and  cries  my  longing  soul  for  the  house 
of  Jacob. 

My  tears  have  unto  me  been  meat,  both  in  night  and 
day : 

And  the  crimson  and  fine  linen  moulders  in  the  dark 
tents  of  the  enemy. 

With  bare  feet  and  covered  head  do  I  return  to  thee,  O 
Israel ! 

With  sackcloth  have  I  bound  the  hem  of  my  garments. 

With  olive  leaves  have  I  trimmed  the  border  of  my 
bosom. 

The  breaking  waves  did  pass  o'er  me ;  yea,  were  mighty 
in  their  strength — 

Strength  of  the  foe's  oppression. 

My  soul  was  cast  out  upon  the  waters  of  Sin  :  but  it  has 
come  back  to  me. 

My  transgressions  have  vanished  like  a  cloud. 

The  curse  of  Balaam  hath  turned  to  a  blessing ; 

And  the  doors  of  Jacob  turn  not  on  their  hinges  against 
me. 

Rise  up,  O  Israel !  for  it  is  I  who  passed  through  the 
fiery  furnace  seven  times,  and  come  forth  unscathed,  to  re 
deem  thee  from  slavery,  O  my  nation  !  and  lead  thee  back 
to  God. 

III. 

Brothers  mine,  fling  out  your  white  banners  over  this 
Red  Sea  of  wrath  ! 

Hear  ye  not  the  Death-cry  of  a  thousand  burning, 
bleeding  wrongs  ? 


84  HEAR,  O   ISRAELI 

Against  the  enemy  lift  thy  sword  of  fire,  even  thon,  O 
Israel !  whose  prophet  I  am. 

For  I,  of  all  thy  race,  with  these  tear-blinded  eyes,  still 
see  the  watch-fire  leaping  up  its  blood-red  flame  from  the 
ramparts  of  our  Jerusalem  ! 

And  my  heart  alone  beats  and  palpitates,  rises  and  falls 
with  the  glimmering  and  the  gleaming  of  the  golden  beacon 
flame,  by  whose  light  I  shall  lead  thee,  O  my  people  ! 
back  to  freedom  ! 

Give  me  time — oh  give  me  time  to  strike  from  your 
brows  the  shadow-crowns  of  Wrong  ! 

On  the  anvil  of  my  heart  will  I  rend  the  chains  that 
bind  ye. 

Look  upon  me — oh  look  upon  me,  as  I  turn  from  the 
world — from  love,  and  passion,  to  lead  thee,  thou  Chosen 
of  God,  back  to  the  pastures  of  Right  and  Life  1 

Fear  me  not ;  for  the  best  blood  that  heaves  this  heart 
now  runs  for  thee,  thou  Lonely  Nation  ! 

Why  wear  ye  not  the  crown  of  eternal  royalty,  that  God 
set  down  upon  your  heads  ? 

Back,  tyrants  of  the  red  hands ! 

Slouch  back  to  your  ungodly  tents,  and  hide  the  Cain- 
brand  on  your  foreheads ! 

Life  for  life,  blood  for  blood,  is  the  lesson  ye  teach 
us. 

We,  the  Children  of  Israel,  will  not  creep  to  the  kennel 
graves  ye  are  scooping  out  with  iron  hands,  like  scourged 
hounds ! 

Israel !  rouse  ye  from  the  slumber  of  ages,  and,  though 
Hell  welters  at  your  feet,  carve  a  road  through  these 
tyrants  ! 


HEAR,  0  ISRAEL!  85 

The  promised  dawn-light  is  here  j  and  God — O  the  God 
of  our  nation  is  calling  ! 

Press  on — press  on  ! 

IV. 

Ye,  who  are  kings,  princes,  priests,  and  prophets.  Ye 
men  of  Judah  and  bards  of  Jerusalem,  hearken  unto  my 
voice,  and  I  will  speak  thy  name,  O  Israel ! 

Fear  not ;  for  God  hath  at  last  let  loose  His  thinkers, 
and  their  voices  now  tremble  in  the  mighty  depths  of  this 
old  world ! 

Rise  up  from  thy  blood-stained  pillows  ! 

Cast  down  to  dust  the  hideous,  galling  chains  that  bind 
thy  strong  hearts  down  to  silence  ! 

Wear  ye  the  badge  of  slaves  ? 
See  ye  not  the  watch-fire  ? 

Look  aloft,  from  thy  wilderness  of  thought ! 

Come  forth  with  the  signs  and  wonders,  and  thy  strong 
hands,  and  stretched-out  arms,  even  as  thou  didst  from 
Egypt! 

Courage,  courage!  trampled  hearts ! 

Look  at  these  pale  hands  and  frail  arms,  that  have  rent 
asunder  the  welded  chains  that  an  army  of  the  Philistines 
bound  about  me ! 

But  the  God  of  all  Israel  set  His  seal  of  fire  on  my 
breast,  and  lighted  up,  with  inspiration,  the  soul  that  pants 
for  the  Freedom  of  a  nation  ! 

With  eager  wings  she  fluttered  above  the  blood-stained 
bayonet-points  of  the  millions,  who  are  trampling  upon 
the  strong  throats  of  God's  people. 
Rise  up,  brave  hearts  1 


86  HEAR,  0  ISRAEL! 

The  sentry  cries  :  "  All's  well !"  from  Hope's  tower ! 
Fling  out  your  banners  of  Right ! 
The  watch  fire  grows  brighter  ! 

All's  well !     All's  well  I 

Courage  !     Courage  ! 
The  Lord  of  Hosts  is  in  the  field, 
The  God  of  Jacob  is  our  shield  ! 


WHERE   THE   FLOCKS    SHALL   BE 
LED. 

TJ7 HERE  shall  I  lead  the  flocks  to-day  ? 

Is  there  no  Horeb  for  me  beyond  this  desert  ? 

Is  there  no  rod  with  which  I  can  divide  this  sea  of  blood 
to  escape  mine  enemies  ? 

Must  I  pine  in  bondage  and  drag  these  heavy  chains 
through  the  rocky  path  of  my  unrecompensed  toil  ? 

Must  I,  with  these  pale,  feeble  hands,  still  lift  the 
wreathed  bowl  for  others  to  drink,  while  my  lips  are 
parched  and  my  soul  unslaked  ? 

Must  I  hold  the  light  above  my  head  that  others  may 
find  the  green  pastures  as  they  march  in  advance,  whilst 
I  moan  and  stumble  with  my  bare  feet  tangled  and  clogged 
with  this  load  of  chains  ? 

Must  I  still  supply  the  lamp  with  oil  that  gives  no  light 
to  me  ? 

Shall  I  reck  not  my  being's  wane  in  these  long  days  of 
bondage  and  struggle  ? 

Is  there  no  time  for  me  to  pray  ? 

Others  are  climbing  the  hill-side  of  glory  whilst  I  am 
left  to  wrestle  with  darkness  in  the  valley  below. 

Oh  where  shall  I  lead  the  flocks  to-day  ? 

Once  the  soft  white  flowers  of  love  bloomed  upon  my 
bosom. 

87 


88   WHERE  THE  FLOCKS  SHALL  BE  LED. 

But,  oh !  see  this  iron  crown  hath  crushed  the  purple 
blood  from  my  temples  until  the  roses  are  drowned  in  it 
and  'tis  withered  and  weeping  on  my  breast 

The  dear  hands  that  planted  the  sweet  flowers  should 
not  have  been  the  ones  to  clasp  this  heavy  iron  band 
round  my  aching  head. 

Oh  why  is  it  that  those  we  love  and  cling  to  with  the 
deepest  adoration  of  our  unschooled  natures  should  be  the 
first  to  whet  the  steel  and  bury  it  in  the  warm  blood  that 
passionate  love  had  created  ? 

Answer  me,  ye  who  are  ranged  mockingly  around  me 
with  your  unsheathed  knives.  Answer  me. 

I  know  that  ye  are  waiting  to  strike,  but  answer  me  first 

I  know  that  if  my  tearful  eyes  do  but  wander  from  ye 
one  moment,  your  trembling  cowardly  hands  will  strike 
the  blow  that  your  black  souls  are  crying  out  for. 

But  let  your  haggard  lips  speak  to  give  me  warning. 

Ye  wait  to  see  if  these  tears  will  blind  me. 

But  I  shall  not  plead  for  mercy. 

Weak  and  fainting  as  I  am,  I  fear  you  not 

For,  lo  !  behold  ! 

I  bare  to  you  my  white  mother  bosom  ! 

See,  I  draw  from  my  heart  a  dagger  whose  blade  is 
keener  than  any  ye  can  hold  against  me. 

The  hands  I  loved  most  whetted  it,  and  struck  with 
fatal  precision  ye  never  can,  for  he  knew  where  the  heart 
lay. 

No  one  else  can  ever  know. 

Look  how  the  thick  blood  slowly  drips  from  the  point 
of  the  blade  and  sinks  into  the  sand  at  my  feet 

The  white  sand  rolls  over  and  covers  the  stains. 


WHERE  THE  FLOCKS  SHALL  BE  LED.  89 

Flowers  will  spring  up  even  there. 

One  day  the  sands  will  loose  their  seal,  and  they  will 
speak. 

The  first  shall  be  last  and  the  last  shall  be  first 

The  first  is  my  own  life  and  the  last  my  child. 

That  one  will  bloom  eternally. 

And  together  we  will  sound  the  horn  that  shall  herd 
the  flocks  and  lead  them  up  to  the  Father's  pastures. 

For  I  know  that  somewhere  there  grows  a  green  bush 
in  the  crevice  of  a  rock,  and  that  the  enemy's  foot  may 
not  crush  it  nor  his  hand  uproot  it. 

A  golden  gate  shall  be  unloosed,  and  we  shall  feed  upon 
the  freshness  of  the  mountains. 

But,  see,  the  furnace  has  been  heated  seven  times. 

I  still  stand  barefoot  and  bondage-bound,  girt  around 
my  warriors,  and  chained  and  down-trodden  upon  these 
burning  sands. 

And  yet  I  will  escape. 

Look,  the  pillar  of  cloud  is  over  my  head. 

He  who  saved  the  bush  on  Horeb  from  the  flames  can 
lead  me  through  the  Red  Sea,  beyond  the  reach  of  these 
Egyptians  with  their  rumbling  chariots,  tramping  steeds, 
clashing  weapons,  and  thunders  of  war. 

Above  the  tumult  I  hear  the  voice  of  Aaron. 

When  the  sun  rises  the  chains  shall  be  unsealed. 

The  blood  shall  be  lifted  from  the  earth  and  will  speak. 

The  task-masters  shall  perish. 

The  white  flocks  shall  be  led  back  to  the  broad  plains 
of  Hebron. 

I  still  see  the  pillar  of  cloud. 

God  is  in  the  midst  of  us  ! 


PRO  PATRIA. 

AMERICA,  l86l. 

/"*  OD'S  armies  of  Heaven,  with  pinions  extended, 

Spread  wide  their  white  arms  to  the  standard  of 

Light ; 

And  bending  far  down  to  the  great  Heart  of  Nature, 
With  kisses  of  Love  drew  us  up  from  the  Night. 

Proud  soul  of  the  Bondless  !  whose  stars  fleck  with  crim 
son, 

And  warm  dreams  of  gold  ev'ry  pillar  and  dome, 
That  strengthens  and  crowns  the  fair  temples  upswelling 

To  glitter,  far-seen,  in  our  Liberty's  home — 

The  spirits  of  Heroes  and  Sires  of  the  People, 
Leaned  down  from  the  battlements  guarding  the  world ; 

To  breathe  for  your  Destiny  omens  of  glory 
And  freedom  eternal,  in  Honor  impearled. 

The  storm-goaded  mountains,  and  trees  that  had  battled 
With  winds  sweeping  angrily  down  through  the  years, 

Turned  red  in  Ihe  blood  of  the  roses  of  Heaven, 
'Neath  fires  lit  by  sunset  on  vanishing  spears. 

The  soft  Beam  of  Peace  bronzed  the  rocks  of  stern  ages, 
And  crept  from  the  valley  to  burn  on  the  spire  ; 

90 


PRO  P ATRIA.  91 

And  stooped  from  the  glimmer  of  gems  in  the  palace, 
To  glow  in  the  hovel  a  soul-heating  fire. 

Each  turret,  and  terrace,  and  archway  of  grandeur, 
Its  beauty  up-rounded  through  laughs  of  the  light ; 

And  world-crown'd  America  chose  for  her  standard 
The  blush  of  the  Day  and  the  eyes  of  the  Night 

Then  Liberty's  sceptre,  its  last  jewel  finding, 
Was  waved  by  a  God  o'er  the  years  to  be  born, 

And  far  in  the  future  there  rusted  and  crumbled 
The  chains  of  the  centuries,  ne'er  to  be  worn. 

The  wave-hosts  patrolling  the  sullen  Atlantic, 
With  helmets  of  snow,  and  broad  silvery  shields, 

Ran  clamoring  up  to  the  seed-sown  embrasures, 
And  fashioned  new  dews  for  the  buds  of  the  fields : 

They  spread  their  scroll  shields  for  the  breast  of  Columbia, 
And  turned  their  storm-swords  to  the  enemy's  fleet; 

Their  glory  to  humble  the  tyrant  that  braved  them, 
Their  honor  to  lave  fair  America's  feet ! 

No  hot  hand  of  Mars  scattered  red  bolts  of  thunder 
From  out  the  blest  land  on  their  message-wind's  breath  ; 

But  softly  the  murmur  of  Peace  wantoned  o'er  them, 
And  soothed  War  to  sleep  in  the  Cradle  of  Death, 

Then  hiding  their  snow  plumes,  they  slept  in  their  armor, 
And  as  the  sun  shone  on  their  crystalline  mail ; 

Lo  !  Freedom  beheld,  from  her  mountains,  a  mirror, 
And  caught  her  own  image  spread  under  a  sail  ! 


92  PRO  P ATRIA. 

So,  blest  was  Columbia ;  the  focus  of  Nature's 

Best  gifts,  and  the  dimple  where  rested  God's  smile  ; 

The  Queen  of  the  World  in  her  young  strength  and  beauty, 
The  pride  of  the  skies  in  her  freedom  from  guile. 

Aloft  on  the  mount  of  God's  liberty  endless, 

Half  veiled  by  the  clouds  of  His  temple  she  stood, 

Arrayed  in  the  glory  of  Heaven,  the  mortal, 
With  vigor  Immortal  unchained  in  her  blood. 

A  bright  helm  of  stars  on  her  white  brow  was  seated. 
And  gold  were  the  plumes  from  its  clusters  that  fell 

To  light  the  gaunt  faces  of  slaves  in  old  kingdoms, 
And  show  them  the  way  to  the  hand  they  loved  well. 

No  gorget  of  steel  rested  on  her  bare  bosom, 

Where  glittered  a  necklace  of  gems  from  the  skies ; 

And  girding  her  waist  was  the  red  band  of  sunset, 
With  light  intertwined  'neath  the  glance  of  her  eyes. 

The  sword  that  had  bridged  in  the  dark  time  of  trouble, 
Her  heart's  grand  Niagara  rolling  in  blood ; 

Still  sheathless  she  held ;  but  it  turned  to  a  sunbeam, 
And  blessed  what  it  touched,  like  a  finger  of  God ! 

Tne  robes  of  her  guardian  Angels  swept  round  her, 
And  flashed  through  the  leaves  of  the  grand  Tree  of 
Life, 

Till  all  the  sweet  birds  in  its  depths  woke  to  music, 
And  e'en  the  bruised  limbs  with  new  being  were  rife. 

The  Eagle's  gray  eyes,  from  the  crag  by  the  ocean, 
Undazed  by  the  sun,  saw  the  vision  of  love, 


PRO  PATRIA.  93 

And  swift  on  the  rim  of  the  shield  of  Columbia, 
The  bold  Eagle  fell  from  the  white  throne  of  Jove ! 

Columbia  !  My  Country  !  My  Mother  !  thy  glory 

Was  born  in  a  spirit  Immortal,  divine  ; 
And  when  from  God's  lips  passed  the  nectar  of  heaven, 

Thy  current  baptismal  was  deified  wine  ! 

Thou  born  of  Eternal !  the  hand  that  would  harm  thee 
Must  wither  tc  dust,  and  in  dust  be  abhorred, 

For  thine  is  the  throne  whose  blue  canopy  muffles 
The  footfalls  of  angels,  the  steps  of  the  Lord  ! 

But  hush !    'Twas  the  flap  of  the  raven's  dark  pinions 
That  sounded  in  woe  on  the  breeze  as  it  passed ; 

There  cometh  a  hum,  as  of  distance-veiled  battle, 
From  out  the  deep  throat  of  the  quivering  blast ; 

There  cometh  a  sound  like  the  moan  of  a  lost  one 
From  out  the  red  jaws  of  Hell's  cavern  of  Death ; 

The  Eagle's  strong  wing  feels  the  talon  of  Discord, 
And  all  the  fair  sunlight  goes  out  with  a  breath ! 

And  see  how  the  purple-hued  hills  and  the  valleys 

Are  dark  with  bent  necks  and  with  arms  all  unnerved ; 

And  tlack,  yelling  hounds  bay  the  soul  into  madness — 
The  Huntsman  of  Hell  drives  the  pack  that  has  swerved  ! 

The  pale  steeds  of  Death  shake  the  palls  of  their  saddles, 
And  spread  their  black  manes,  wrought  of  shrouds,  to 
the  wind, 

The  curst  sons  of  Discord  each  courser  bestriding, 
To  guide  the  Arch-Demon,  who  lingers  behind 


94  PRO  P ATRIA. 

They  thunder  in  rage,  o'er  the  red  path  of  Battle, 
Far  up  the  steep  mount  where  fair  Liberty  keeps 

The  soul  of  a  Tyrant  in  parchment  imprisoned ; 
God  pity  us  all,  if  her  Sentinel  sleeps  ! 

Our  Father  in  Heaven  !  the  shadow  of  fetters 
Is  held  in  the  shade  of  the  Dove's  little  wing ; 

And  must  it  again  on  our  smothered  hearts  settle  ? 
Peace  slain — and  the  knell  of  our  Honor  they  ring  ! 

Behold  !  from  the  night-checkered  edge  of  the  woodland 
A  wall  of  red  shields  crowdeth  into  the  land, 

Their  rims  shooting  horror  and  bloody  confusion, 
Their  fields  spreading  darkness  on  every  hand. 

A  forest  of  morions  utter  grim  murder — 

Threats  kissed  by  the  sun  from  their  long  tongues  of  steel ; 
Lo,  forests  of  spears  hedge  the  heart  of  Columbia, 

And  soon  their  keen  points  her  fair  bosom  may  feel ! 

Her  Cain-branded  foes  !     How  they  crawl  in  the  valley, 
And  creep  o'er  the  hills,  in  their  dastardly  fear  ! 

Afraid,  lest  their  victim  should  suddenly  waken 
And  blast  them  for  e'er  with  a  womanly  tear  ! 

Like  hunters  who  compass  the  African  jungle, 

Where  slumbers  Numidia's  lion  by  day, 
They  falter  and  pale,  looking  back  at  each  other, 

And  some,  in  their  falsehood,  to  Providence  pray  ! 

Assassins  of  Liberty  !  comes  there  not  o'er  you 
A  thought  of  the  time,  when  the  land  you  would  blight, 


PRO  PATRIA.  95 

Though  slumbering  'mid  tombs  of  a  hundred  dead  nations, 
Though  Britain's  steel  bulwarks  broke  into  the  light  ? 

And  can  ye  forget  the  hot  blood  rain  that  deluged 
The  Hearts  of  the  Fathers,  who  left  to  your  care 

The  beautiful  Trust  now  in  slumber  before  you, 

They  starved,  fought,  and  fell  to  preserve  from  a  snare  ? 

Would  ye  splash,  in  your  madness,  the  blood  of  the  children, 
With  merciless  blows,  in  the  poor  mother's  face  ? 

Turn  back,  ye  Assassins  !  or  wear  on  your  foreheads 
For  ever  the  brand  of  a  God-hated  race  ! 

Down,  down  to  the  dust  with  ye,  cowards  inhuman  ! 

And  learn,  as  ye  grovel,  for  mercy  to  live, 
That  Love  is  the  Sceptre  and  Throne  of  the  Nation, 

And  Freedom  the  Crown  that  the  centuries  give  1 

Unrighteous  Ambition  has  slept  in  our  limits 

Since  fearless  Columbia  sheathed  her  bright  blade  : 

And  at  her  dread  Vengeance  on  those  who  awake  it, 
The  soul  of  the  stoutest  might  well  be  dismayed. 

Beware  !  for  the  spirit  of  God's  Retribution 
Will  make  a  red  sunrise  when  Liberty  dies ; 

The  Traitors  shall  writhe  in  the  glow  of  a  morning, 
And  drown  in  the  blood  that  is  filling  their  eyes  ! 

The  bright  blade  of  old,  when  it  leaps  from  the  scabbard 
Like  Lightning  shall  fall  on  the  traitorous  head, 

And  hurl  with  each  stroke,  in  its  world-shock  of  thunder, 
A  thrice  cursed  soul  to  the  deeps  of  the  Dead  I 


96 


PRO   P ATRIA. 


Beware !  for  when  once  ye  have  made  your  Red  Ocean, 
Its  waves  shall  rise  up  with  tempestuous  swell, 

And  hurl  your  stained  souls,  like  impurities,  from  them 
Up  death's  dark  slope,  to  the  skull  beach  of  Hell ! 


KARAZAH   TO   KARL. 


back  to  me  !  my  life  is  young, 
My  soul  is  scarcely  on  her  way, 
And  all  the  starry  songs  she's  sung, 
Are  prelude  to  a  grander  lay. 

Come  back  to  me  ! 

Let  this  song-born  soul  receive  thee, 
Glowing  its  fondest  truth  to  prove  ; 

Why  so  early  did'st  thou  leave  me, 
Are  our  heaven-grand  life  of  love  ? 

Come  back  to  me  1 

My  burning  lips  shall  set  their  seal 
On  our  betrothal  bond  to-night, 

While  whispering  murmurs  will  reveal 
How  souls  can  love  in  God's  own  light 
Come  back  to  me  I 

Come  back  to  me  !     The  stars  will  be 

Silent  witnesses  of  our  bliss, 
And  all  the  past  shall  seem  to  thee 

But  a  sweet  dream  to  herald  this  ! 

Come  back  to  me  ! 


A  FRAGMENT. 

"  Oh  !  I  am  sick  of  what  I  am.     Of  all 
Which  I  in  life  can  ever  hope  to  be. 
Angels  of  light  be  pitiful  to  me." 

"T^HE  cold  chain  of  life  presseth  heavily  on  me  to 
night. 

The  thundering  pace  of  thought  is  curbed,  and,  like  a 
fiery  steed,  dasheth  against  the  gloomy  walls  of  my  pris 
oned  soul. 

Oh  !  how  long  will  my  poor  thoughts  lament  their  nar 
row  faculty  ?  When  will  the  rein  be  loosed  from  my  im 
patient  soul  ? 

Ah !  then  I  will  climb  the  blue  clouds  and  dash  down 
to  dust  those  jeweled  stars,  whose  silent  light  wafts  a 
mocking  laugh  to  the  poor  musician  who  sitteth  before 
the  muffled  organ  of  my  great  hopes.  With  a  hand  of 
fire  he  toucheth  the  golden  keys.  All  breathless  and  rapt 
I  list  for  an  answer  to  his  sweet  meaning,  but  the  glitter 
ing  keys  give  back  only  a  faint  hollow  sound — the  echo  of 
a  sigh ! 

Cruel  stars  to  mock  me  with  your  laughing  light ! 

Oh !  see  ye  not  the  purple  life-blood  ebbing  from  my 
side? 

But  ye  heed  it  not — and  I  scorn  ye  all. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


99 


Foolish  stars  !  Ye  forget  that  this  strong  soul  will  one 
day  be  loosed. 

I  will  have  ye  in  my  power  yet,  I'll  meet  ye  on  the 
grand  door  of  old  eternity. 

Ah !  then  ye  will  not  laugh,  but  shrink  before  me  like 
very  beggars  of  light  that  ye  are,  and  I  will  grasp  from 
your  gleaming  brows  the  jeweled  crown,  rend  away  your 
glistening  garments,  and  hold  ye  up  blackened  skeletons 
for  the  laugh  and  scorn  of  all  angels,  and  then  drive  ye 
out  to  fill  this  horrid  space  of  darkness  that  I  now 
grovel  in. 

But,  alas  !  I  am  weary,  sick,  and  faint 

The  chains  do  bind  the  shrinking  flesh  too  close. 

"  Angels  of  light,  be  pitiful  to  me." 

Oh !  this  life,  after  all,  is  but  a  promise — a  poor  pro 
mise,  that  is  too  heavy  to  bear — heavy  with  blood,  reeking 
human  blood.  The  atmosphere  is  laden  with  it  When 
I  shut  my  eyes  it  presses  so  close  to  their  lids  that  I  must 
gasp  and  struggle  to  open  them. 

I  know  that  the  sins  of  untrue  hearts  are  clogging  up 
the  air-passages  of  the  world,  and  that  we,  who  love  and 
suffer,  will  soon  be  smothered,  and  in  this  terrible  dark 
ness  too. 

For  me — my  poor  lone,  deserted  body — I  care  not  I 
am  not  in  favor  of  men's  eyes. 

"  Nor  am  I  skilled  immortal  stuff  to  weave. 
No  rose  of  honor  wear  I  on  my  sleere." 

But  the  soft  silver  hand  of  death  will  unbind  the  galling 


ioo  A   FRAGMENT. 

bands  that  clasp  the  fretting  soul  in  her  narrow  prison- 
house,  and  she  may  then  escape  the  iron  hands  that  would 
crush  the  delicate  fibres  to  dust. 

0  soul,  where  are   thy  wings  ?     Have  they  with  their 
rude   hands   torn  them  from  thy  mutilated   form  ?     We 
must  creep  slowly  and  silently  away  through  the  midnight 
darkness.     But  we  are  strong  yet,  and  can  battle  with  the 
fiends  who  seek  to  drive  us  back  to  the  river  of  blood. 

But,  alas  !  it  is  so  late,  and  I  am  alone — alone  listening 
to  the  gasps  and  sighs  of  a  weary  soul  beating  her  broken 
wing  against  the  darkened  walls  of  her  lonely  celL 

"  My  labor  is  a  vain  and  empty  strife, 
A  useless  tugging  at  the  wheels  of  life." 

Shall  I  still  live — filling  no  heart,  working  no  good,  and 
the  cries  of  my  holy  down-trodden  race  haunting  me  ? 
Beseeching  me — me,  with  these  frail  arms  and  this  poor 
chained  soul,  to  lift  them  back  to  their  birthright  of 
glory. 

"Angels  of  light,  be  pitiful  to  me." 

1  have  wearied  Heaven  with  my  tears  and  prayers  till  I 
have  grown  pale  and  old,  but  a  shadow  of  my  former  self, 
and  all  for  power,  blessed  power !     Not  for  myself — but 
for  those   dearer   and  worthier  than  I — those  from   out 
whose  hearts  my  memory  has  died  for  ever. 

But,  alas  !  it  is  vain. 

Prayers  and  tears  will  not  bring  back  sweet  hope  and 
love. 
I  may  still  sigh  and  weep  for  these  soft-winged  nestling 


A   FRAGMENT.  101 

angels  of  my  lost  dreams  till  I  am  free  to  seek  them  in  the 
grand  homes  where  I  have  housed  them  with  the  golden- 
haired  son  of  the  sky. 

It  is  midnight,  and  the  world  is  still  battling — the  weak 
are  falling,  the  strong  and  the  wrong  are  exulting. 

And  I,  like  the  dying  stag,  am  hunted  down  to  the 
ocean  border,  still  asking  for  peace  and  rest  of  the  great 
gleaming  eyes  that  pierce  the  atmosphere  of  blood  and 
haunt  me  with  their  pleading  looks.  Whispers  are  there 
— low,  wailing  whispers  from  white-browed  children  as 
though  I  could  bear  their  chained  souls  o'er  Charon's 
mystic  river  of  their  purple  blood. 

Alas !  star  after  star  has  gone  down  till  not  one  is  in 
sight  How  dark  and  cold  it  is  growing  ! 

Oh,  light !  why  have  you  fled  to  a  fairer  land  and  left 

"  An  unrigged  hulk,  to  rot  upon  life's  ford — 
The  crew  of  mutinous  senses  overboard?" 

It  is  too  late.     I  faint  with  fear  of  these  atom-fiends 
that  do  cling  to  my  garments  in  this  darkness. 
Oh  !  rest  for  thee,  my  weary  soul, 

The  coil  is  round  thee  all  too  fast. 
Too  close  to  earth  thy  pinions  clasp : 
A  trance-like  death  hath  o'er  thee  past. 

Oh,  soul !  oh,  broken  soul,  arise, 
And  plume  thee  for  a  prouder  flight. 

In  vain,  in  vain — 'tis  sinking  now 
And  dying  in  eternal  night. 

"  Suffer  and  be  still." 


102  A   FRAGMENT. 

Death  will  bind  up  thy  powerful  wings,  and  to  the 
organ  music  of  my  great  hopes  thou  shall  beat  sublimer 
airs. 

Wait  until  eternity. 


THE   AUTOGRAPH   ON  THE   SOUL. 

T  N  the  Beginning,  God,  the  great  Schoolmaster,  wrote 
upon  the  white  leaves  of  our  souls  the  text  of  life, 
in  His  own  autograph. 

Upon  all  souls  it  has  been  written  alike. 

We  set  forth  with  the  broad,  fair  characters  penned  in 
smoothness  and  beauty,  and  promise  to  bear  them  back 
so,  to  the  Master,  who  will  endorse  them  with  eternal  life. 

But,  alas  !  how  few  of  us  can  return  with  these  copy 
books  unstained  and  unblotted  ? 

Man — the  school-boy  Man — takes  a  jagged  pen  and 
dips  it  in  blood,  and  scrawls  line  after  line  of  his  hopeless, 
shaky,  weak-backed,  spattering  imitation  of  the  unattain 
able  flourish  and  vigor  of  the  autograph  at  the  top  of  our 
souls. 

And  thus  they  go  on,  in  unweary  reiteration,  until  the 
fair  leaves  are  covered  with  unseemly  blots,  and  the 
Schoolmaster's  copy  is  no  longer  visible. 

No  wonder,  then,  that  we  shrink  and  hide,  and  play 
truant  as  long  as  we  possibly  can,  before  handing  in  to  the 
Master  our  copy-books  for  examination. 

How  soiled  with  the  dust  of  men,  and  stained  with  the 
blood  of  the  innocent,  some  of  these  books  are  I 

Surely,  some  will  look  fairer  than  others. 


104      THE  AUTOGRAPH  ON  THE  SOUL. 

Those  of  the  lowly  and  despised  of  men  ; 

The  wronged  and  the  persecuted  ; 

The  loving  and  the  deserted  ; 

The  suffering  and  the  despairing  ; 

The  weak  and  the  struggling ; 

The  desolate  and  the  oppressed  ; 

The  authors  of  good  books  ; 

The  defenders  of  women  ; 

The  mothers  of  new-born  children  ; 

The  loving  wives  of  cruel  husbands ; 

The  strong  throats  that  are  choked  with  theii  own  blood, 
and  cannot  cry  out  the  oppressor's  wrong. 

On  the  souls  of  these  of  God's  children  of  inspiration, 
His  autograph  will  be  handed  up  to  the  judgment-seat,  on 
the  Day  of  Examination,  pure  and  unsoiled. 

The  leaf  may  be  torn,  and  traces  of  tears,  that  fell  as 
prayers  went  up,  may  dim  the  holy  copy,  but  its  fair, 
sharp,  and  delicate  outlines  will  only  gleam  the  stronger, 
and  prove  the  lesson  of  life,  that  poor,  down-trodden  hu 
manity  has  been  studying  for  ages  and  ages — the  eternal 
triumph  of  mind  over  matter  ! 

What  grand  poems  these  starving  souls  will  be,  after 
they  are  signed  and  sealed  by  the  Master-hand  ! 

But  what  of  the  oppressor  ? 

What  of  the  betrayer  ? 

What  of  him  that  holds  a  deadly  cup,  that  the  pure  of 
heart  may  drink  ? 

What  of  fallen  women,  wno  are  covered  with  paint  and 
sin,  and  flaunt  in  gaudy  satins,  never  heeding  the  black 
stains  within  their  own  breasts  ? — lost  to  honor,  lost  to 
themselves  ;  glittering  in  jewels  and  gold  ;  mingling  with 


THE  AUTOGRAPH  ON  THE  SOUL.      105 

sinful  men,  who,  with  sneering  looks  and  scoffing  laughs, 
drink  wine  beneath  the  gas-light's  glare. 

Wrecks  of  womanly  honor  ! 

Wrecks  of  womanly  souls  ! 

Wrecks  of  life  and  love  ! 

Blots  that  deface  the  fair  earth  with  crime  and  sin  ! 

Fallen — fallen  so  low  that  the  cries  and  groans  of  the 
damned  must  sometimes  startle  their  death-signed  hearts, 
as  they  flaunt  through  the  world,  with  God's  curse  upon 
them! 

What  of  the  money-makers,  with  their  scorching  days 
and  icy  nights  ? 

Their  hollow  words  and  ghastly  smiles  ? 

Their  trifling  deceits  ? 

Their  shameless  lives  ? 

Their  starving  menials  ? 

Their  iron  hands,  that  grasp  the  throats  of  weary,  white- 
haired  men  ? 

Will  their  coffins  be  black  ? 

They  should  be  red — stained  with  the  blood  of  their 
victims ! 

Their  shrouds  should  be  make  with  pockets  ;  and  all 
their  gold  should  b^.  placed  therein,  to  drag  them  deeper 
down  than  the  sexton  dug  the  grave  ! 

How  will  it  be  with  him  who  deceives  and  betrays 
women  ? 

Answer  me  this,  ye  men  who  have  brought  woe  and 
desolation  to  the  heart  of  woman ;  and,  by  your  fond  lips; 
breathing  sighs,  and  vows  of  truth  and  constancy — your 
deceit  and  desertion,  destroyed  her,  body  and  soul ! 

There  are  more  roads  to  the  heart  than  by  cold  steel. 


io6      THE  AUTOGRAPH  ON  THE  SOUL. 

You  drew  her  life  and  soul  after  you  by  your  pretended 
love.  Perhaps  she  sacrificed  her  home,  her  father  and 
her  mother — her  God  and  her  religion  for  you  ! 

Perhaps  for  you  she  has  endured  pain  and  penury  ! 

Perhaps  she  is  the  mother  of  your  child,  living  and 
praying  for  you  J 

And  how  do  you  repay  this  devotion  ? 

By  entering  the  Eden  of  her  soul,  and  leaving  the  trail 
of  the  serpent,  that  can  never  be  erased  from  its  flowers  ; 
for  the  best  you  trample  beneath  your  feet,  while  the  fair 
est  you  pluck  as  a  toy  to  while  away  an  idle  hour,  then 
dash  aside  for  another  of  a  fairer  cast 

Then,  if  she  plead  with  her  tears,  and  her  pure  hands, 
to  Heaven,  that  you  come  back  to  your  lost  honor,  and  to 
her  heart,  you  do  not  hesitate  to  tear  that  suffering  heart 
with  a  shameless  word,  that  cuts  like  a  jagged  knife,  and 
add  your  curse  to  crush  her  light  of  life  ! 

Have  ye  seen  the  blood-stained  steel,  dimmed  with  the 
heart's  warm  blood  of  the  suicide  ? 

Have  ye  seen  the  pallid  lips,  the  staring  eyes,  the  un 
closed,  red-roofed  mouth — the  bubbling  gore,  welling  up 
from  a  woman's  breast  ? 

Have  ye  seen  her  dying  in  shivering  dread,  with  the 
blood  dabbled  o'er  her  bosom  ? 

Have  ye  heard  her  choked  voice  rise  in  prayer — her 
pale  lips  breathing  his  name — the  name  of  him  who  de 
ceived  her  ?  Yes  !  a  prayer  coming  up  with  the  bubbling 
blood — a  blessing  on  him  for  whom  she  died  ! 

Why  did  she  not  pray  for  her  despairing  self? 

O  God  !  have  mercy  on  the  souls  of  men  who  are  false 
to  their  earthly  love  and  trust  1 


THE  AUTOGRAPH  ON  THE  SOUL.      107 

But  the  interest  will  come  round — all  will  come  round  ! 
Nothing  will  escape  the  Schoolmaster's  sleepless  eye  ! 
The  indirect  is  always  as  great  and  real  as  the  direct. 
Not  one  word  or  deed — 
Not  one  look  or  thought — 

Not  a  motive  but  will  be  stamped  on  the  programme  of 
our  lives,  and  duly  realized  by  us,  and  returned,  and  held 
up  to  light  heaven  or  flood  hell  with. 

All  the  best  actions  of  war  or  peace — 
All  the  help  given  to  strangers — 
Cheering  words  to  the  despairing — 
Open  hands  to  the  shunned — 
Lifting  of  lowly  hearts — 
Teaching  children  of  God — 
Helping  the  widow  and  the  fatherless — 
Giving  light  to  some  desolate  home — 
Reading  the  Bible  to  the  blind — 
Protecting  the  defenceless — 
Praying  with  the  dying. 

These  are  acts  that  need  no  Poet  to  make  poems  of 
them ;  for  they  will  live  through  ages  and  ages,  on  to 
Eternity.  And  when  God  opens  the  sealed  book  on  the 
Day  of  Judgment,  these  poems  of  the  history  of  lives  will 
be  traced  in  letters  of  purple  and  gold,  beneath  the  Mas 
ter's  Autograph. 


ADELINA   PATTI. 

rTHOU  Pleiad  of  the  lyric  world 
Where  Pasta,  Garcia  shone, 
Come  back  with  thy  sweet  voice  again, 
And  gem  the  starry  zone. 

Though  faded,  still  the  vision  sees 
The  loveliest  child  of  night, 

The  fairest  of  the  Pleiades, 
Its  glory  and  its  light 

How  fell  with  music  from  thy  tongue 

The  picture  which  it  drew 
Of  Lucia,  radiant,  warm,  and  young — 

Amina,  fond  and  true. 

Or  the  young  Marie's  grace  and  art, 

So  free  from  earthly  strife, 
Beating  upon  the  sounding  heart, 

The  gay  tattoo  of  life  ! 

Fair  Florence  !  home  of  glorious  Art, 

And  mistress  of  its  sphere, 
Clasp  fast  thy  beauties  to  thy  heart — 

Behold  thy  rival  here  ! 


DYING. 


T  EAVE  me  ;  oh  !  leave  me, 

Lest  I  find  this  low  earth  sweeter  than  the  skies. 

Leave  me  lest  I  deem  Faith's  white  bosom  bared  to 
the  betraying  arms  of  Death. 

Hush  your  fond  voice,  lest  it  shut  out  the  angel  trum 
pet-call  ! 

See  my  o'erwearied  feet  bleed  for  rest 

Loose  the  clinging  and  the  casping  of  my  clammy 
fingers. 

Your  soft  hand  of  Love  may  press  back  the  dark, 
awful  shadows  of  Death,  but  the  soul  faints  in  the  strife 
and  struggles  of  nights  that  have  no  days. 

I  am  so  weary  with  this  climbing  up  the  smooth  steep 
sides  of  the  grave  wall. 

My  dimmed  eyes  can  no  longer  strain  up  through  the 
darkness  to  the  temples  and  palaces  that  you  have  built 
for  me  upon  Life's  summit 

God  is  folding  up  the  white  tent  of  my  youth. 

My  name  is  enrolled  for  the  pallid  army  of  the  dead. 

II. 

It  is  too  late,  too  late  ! 

You  may  not  kiss  back  my  breath  to  the  sunshine. 

109 


no  DYING. 

How  can  these  trembling  hands  of  dust  reach  up  to 
bend  the  untempered  iron  of  Destiny  down  to  my  woman- 
forehead  ? 

Where  is  the  wedge  to  split  its  knotty  way  between  the 
Past  and  the  Future  ? 

The  soaring  bird  that  would  sing  its  life  out  to  the  stars, 
may  not  leave  its  own  atmosphere ; 

For,  in  the  long  dead  reaches  of  blank  space  in  the 
Beyond,  its  free  wings  fall  back  to  earth  baffled. 

Once  gathering  all  my  sorrows  up  to  one  purpose — 
rebel-like — I  dared  step  out  into  Light,  when,  lo !  Death 
tied  my  unwilling  feet,  and  with  hands  of  ice,  bandaged 
my  burning  lips,  and  set  up,  between  my  eyes  and  the 
Future,  the  great  Infinite  of  Eternity,  full  in  the  blazing 
sun  of  my  Hope  ! 

From  the  red  round  life  of  Love  I  have  gone  down  to 
the  naked  house  of  Fear. 

Drowned  in  a  storm  of  tears. 

My  wild  wings  of  thought  drenched  from  beauty  to  the 
color  of  the  ground. 

Going  out  at  the  hueless  gates  of  day. 
Dying,  dying. 

III. 

Oh  !  is  there  no  strength  in  sorrow,  or  in  prayers  ? 

Is  there  no  power  in  the  untried  wings  of  the  soul,  to 
smite  the  brazen  portals  of  the  sun  ? 

Must  the  black-sandaled  foot  of  Night  tramp  out  the 
one  star  that  throbs  through  the  darkness  of  my  waning 
life? 


DYING.  in 

May  not  the  strong  arm  of  "  I  will,"  bring  some  beam 
to  lead  me  inio  my  sweet  Hope  again  ? 
Alas,  too  late  !  too  late  ! 

The  power  of  these  blood-dripping  cerements  sweeps 
back  the  audacious  thought  to  emptiness. 

Hungry  Death  will  not  heed   the  poor  bird  that  has 
tangled  its  bright  wing  through  my  deep-heart  pulses. 
Moaning  and  living. 
Dying  and  loving. 

IV. 

See  the  poor  wounded  snake ;  how  burdened  to  the 
ground ; 

How  it  lengthens  limberly  along  the  dust 
Now  palpitates  into  bright  rings  only  to  unwind,  and 
reach  its  bleeding  head  up  the  steep  high  walls  around  us. 
Now,  alas !   falling  heavily  back   into  itself,  quivering 
with  unuttered  pain ; 

Choking  with  its  own  blood  it  dies  in  the  dust 
So  we  are  crippled  ever ; 
Reaching  and  falling, 
Silent  and  dying. 

V. 

Gold  and  gleaming  jewel  shatter  off  their  glory  well  in 
the  robes  of  royalty,  but  when  we  strain  against  the 
whelming  waves,  the  water  gurgling  down  our  drowning 
throats,  we  shred  them  off,  and  hug  the  wet,  cold  rocks 
lovingly. 

Then  old  death  goes  moaning  back  from  the  steady 
footing  of  Life  baffled. 


112  DYING. 

Ah  !  is  it  too  late  for  me  to  be  wise. 

Will  my  feeble  hands  fail  me  in  the  moveless  stoppings 
back  to  the  world  ? 

Oh  !  if  youth  were  only  back  ! 

Oh  !  if  the  years  would  only  empty  back  their  ruined 
days  into  the  lap  of  the  Present ! 

Oh !  if  yesterday  would  only  unravel  the  light  it  wove 
into  the  purple  of  the  Past ! 

Ah  !  then  might  I  be  vigilant ! 

Then  might  the  battle  be  mine  ! 

Nor  should  my  sluggish  blood  drip  down  the  rocks  till 
the  noon-tide  sun  should  draw  it  up  mistily  in  smoke. 

Then  should  the  heaviness  of  soul  have  dropped  as 
trees  do  their  weight  of  rainy  leaves. 

Nor  should  the  sweet  leash  of  Love  have  slipped  from 
my  hungry  life,  and  left  me  pining,  dying  for  his  strength. 

I  should  have  wrapt  up  my  breathing  in  the  naked 
bosom  of  Nature,  and  she  would  have  kissed  me  back  to 
sweetest  comfort,  and  I  would  have  drawn  up  from  her 
heart  draughts  of  crusted  nectar  and  promises  of  eternal 
joys. 

Oh !  it  is  not  the  glittering  garniture  of  God's  things 
that  come  quivering  into  the  senses,  that  makes  our  lives 
look  white  through  the  windings  of  the  wilderness. 

It  is  the  soul's  outflow  of  purple  light  that  clashes  up  a 
music  with  the  golden  blood  of  strong  hearts. 
Souls  with  God's  breath  upon  them, 
Hearts  with  Love's  light  upon  them. 

VI. 
If  my  weak  puny  hand  could  reach  up  and  rend  the  sun 


DYING.  113 

from  his  throne  to-day,  then  were  the  same  but  a  little 
thing  for  me  to  do. 

It  is  the  Far  Off,  the  great  Unattainable,  that  feeds  the 
passion  we  feel  for  a  star. 

Looking  up  so  high,  worshiping  so  silently,  we  tramp 
out  the  hearts  of  flowers  that  lift  their  bright  heads  for  us 
and  die  alone. 

If  only  the  black,  steep  grave  gaped  between  us,  I  feel 
that  I  could  over-sweep  all  its  gulfs. 

I  believe  that  Love  may  unfold  its  white  wings  even  in 
the  red  bosom  of  Hel  , 

I  know  that  its  truth  can  measure  the  distance  to 
Heaven  with  one  thought 

Then  be  content  to  let  me  go,  for  these  pale  hands 
shall  reach  up  from  the  grave,  and  still  draw  the  living 
waters  of  Love's  well. 

That  is  better,  surer  than  climbing  with  bruised  feet 
and  bleeding  hands  to  plead  with  the  world  for  what  is 
mine  own. 

Then   straighten  out  the  crumpled  length  of  my  hair, 
and  loose  all  the  flowers  one  by  one. 
God  is  not  unjust 

VII. 

Oh !  in  the  great  strength  of  thy  unhooded  soul,  pray 
for  my  weakness. 

Let  me  go !  See  the  pale  and  solemn  army  of  the 
night  is  on  the  march. 

Do  not  let  my  shivering  soul  go  wailing  up  for  a  human 
love  to  the  throne  of  the  Eternal. 

Have  we  not  watched  the  large  setting  sun  drive  a 


H4  DYING. 

column  of  light  through  the  horizon  down  into  the 
darkness  ? 

So  within  the  grave's  night,  O  my  beloved !  shall  my 
love  burn  on  to  eternity. 

O  Death  !  Death  !  loose  out  thy  cold,  stiff  fingers  from 
my  quivering  heart ! 

Let  the  warm  blood  rush  back  to  gasp  up  but  one  more 
word ! 

O  Love  !  thou  art  stronger,  mightier  than  all ! 

O  Death  !  thou  hast  but  wedded  me  to  Life  ! 

Life  is  Love,  and  Love  is  Eternity. 


SAVED. 


r\  SOLDIERS,  soldiers,  get  ye  back,  I  pray  I 

Hush  out  of  sound  your  trampings  so  near  his 
lowly  head  i 

Hush  back  the  echoes  of  your  footfalls  to  the  muffing 
distance  ! 

O  soldiers,  wake  not  my  sleeping  love  ! 

Get  ye  back,  I  pray  ! 

To-morrow  will  he  wake,  and  lead  ye  on  as  bravely  as 
before. 

To-morrow  will  he  lift  the  blazing  sword  above  a  crim 
son  flood  of  victory. 

Get  ye  back  and  wait. 

He  is  weary,  and  would  sleep. 

II. 

Soft,  soft,  he  sleepeth  well. 
Why  stand  ye  all  so  stern  and  sad  ? 
So  garmented  in  the  dust  and  blood  of  battle  ? 
Why  linger  on  the  field  to-day?     See  how  the  dark 
locks  hang  in  bloody  tangles  about  your  glaring  eyes  ! 
Get  ye  to  your  silent  tents,  I  pray  ! 
See  ye  not  your  soldier-chief  sleeps  safe  and  well  ? 


n  6  SAVED. 

What  say  ye  ? 
"Dead!" 

0  blind,  blind  soldiers  !     Should  I  not  know  ? 
Have  I  not  watched  him  all  the  long,  long  battle  ? 

On  this  cold  and  sunless  plain  my  tottering  feet  struck 
the  pathway  to  my  soldier 

My  loving  arms  have  clasped  him  from  the  black, 
hungry  jaws  of  Death. 

With  the  neglected  sunshine  of  my  hair  I  shielded  his 
pale  face  from  the  cannon-glare. 

On  my  breast,  as  on  a  wave  of  heaven-light,  have  I 
lulled  him  to  the  soft  beauty  of  dreams. 

He  has  been  yours  to-day ;  he  is  mine  now. 

He  has  fought  bravely,  and  would  sleep. 

1  know,  I  know. 

III. 

0  soldiers,  soldiers,  take  him  not  hence  ! 

Do  not  press  tears  back  into  your  pitiful  eyes,  and  say  : 
"  His  soul  hath  found  its  rest" 

Why  lean  ye  on  your  blood-stained  spears,  and  point  to 
that  dark  wound  upon  his  throat  ? 

1  can  kiss  its  pain  and  terror  out 
Leave  him,  I  pray  ye  ! 

He  will  wake  to-morrow,  and  cheer  ye  in  your  tents  at 
dawn. 

And  ye  shall  see  him  smile  on  her  who  soothes  his 
weary  head  to  sleep  through  this  long  night. 

It  was  I  who  found  him  at  the  battle's  dreadful  close. 

Weary  and  wounded,  he  sank  to  rest  upon  the  field. 


SAVED.  117 

Murmuring  out  his  tender  voice,  he  called  my  name, 
and  whispered  of  our  love,  and  its  sweet  eternity. 

'Mid  brooding  love  and  clinging  kisses,  his  tender  eyes 
let  down  their  silken  barriers  to  the  day. 

Their  pale  roofs  close  out  the  defeat,  and  in  my  arms  he 
rinds  the  joy  of  glorious  victory. 

IV. 

0  soldiers,  leave  him  to  me  ! 

The  morning,  bridegroomed  by  the  sun,  cannot  look 
down  to  the  midnight  for  comfort 
In  the  thick  front  of  battle  I  claimed  what  is  mine  own. 

1  saw  the  Grim  Foe  open  wide  his  red-leafed  book,  but 
he  wrote  not  therein  the  name  of  my  brave  love. 

Life  hath  no  chance  that  he  cannot  combat  with  a 
single  hand. 

Now  he  wearies  from  the  struggling  grace  of  a  brave 
surrendering. 

He  sleeps,  he  sleeps. 

V. 

Go,  soldiers,  go ! 

I  pray  ye  wake  him  not. 

I  have  kissed  his  pale,  cold  mouth,  and  staunched  the 
crimson  wound  upon  his  throat. 

The  mournful  moon  has  seen  my  silent  watch  above  his 
lonely  bed. 

Her  pitying  eyes  reproached  me  not 

How  durst  yours  ? 

Go,  soldiers,  go ! 


Ii8  SAVED. 

VI. 

I  charge  ye  by  the  love  ye  bear  your  sleeping  chieftain 
wake  him  not ! 

To-morrow  he  will  wake,  eager  to  wheel  into  battle- 
line. 

To-morrow  he  will  rise,  and  mount  the  steed  he  loveth 
well,  and  lead  ye  cheerily  on  to  the  attack  J 

To-morrow  his  voice  will  ring  its  Hope  along  your 
tramping  troops  ! 

But  oh  !  wait,  wait ! 

He  is  weary,  and  must  sleep  ! 

Go,  soldiers,  go ! 


ANSWER   ME. 

I. 

TN  from  the  night 

The  storm  is  lifting  his  black  arms  up  to  the  sky. 

Friend  of  my  heart,  who  so  gently  marks  out  the  life- 
track  for  me,  draw  near  to-night ; 

Forget  the  wailing  of  the  low-voiced  wind  : 

Shut  out  the  meanings  of  the  freezing,  and  the  starving) 
and  the  dying,  and  bend  your  head  low  to  me  : 

Clasp  my  cold,  cold  hands  in  yours  ; 

Think  of  me  tenderly  and  lovingly  : 

Look  down  into  my  eyes  the  while  I  question  you,  and 
if  you  love  me,  answer  me — 

Oh,  answer  me ! 

II. 

Is  there  not  a  gleam  of  Peace  on  all  this  tiresome  earth  r 

Does  not  one  oasis  cheer  all  this  desert-world  ? 

When  will  all  this  toil  and  pain  bring  me  the  blessing  ? 

Must  I  ever  plead  for  help  to  do  the  work  before  me 
set? 

Must  I  ever  stumble  and  faint  by  the  dark  wayside? 

Oh  the  dark,  lonely  wayside,  with  its  dim-sheeted  ghosts 
peering  up  through  their  shallow  graves  ! 


120  ANSWER  ME. 

Must  I  ever  tremble  and  pale  at  the  great  Beyond  ? 
Must  I  find  Rest  only  in  your  bosom,  as  now  I  do  ? 

Answer  me — 

Oh,  answer  me ! 

IIL 

Speak  to  me  tenderly. 

Think  of  me  lovingly. 

Let  your  soft  hands  smooth  back  my  hair. 

Take  my  cold,  tear-stained  face  up  to  yours. 

Let  my  lonely  life  creep  into  your  warm  bosom,  know 
ing  no  other  rest  but  this. 

Let  me  question  you,  while  sweet  Faith  and  Trust  are 
folding  their  white  robes  around  me. 

Thus  am  I  purified,  even  to  your  love,  that  came  like 
John  the  Baptist  in  the  Wilderness  of  Sin. 

You  read  the  starry  heavens,  and  lead  me  forth. 

But  tell  me  if,  in  this  world's  Judea,  there  comes  never 
quiet  when  once  the  heart  awakes  ? 

Why  must  it  ever  hush  Love  back  ? 

Must  it  only  labor,  strive,  and  ache  ? 

Has  it  no  reward  but  this  ? 

Has  it  no  inheritance  but  to  bear— and  break  ? 
Answer  me — 
Oh,  answer  me ! 

IV. 

The  Storm  struggles  with  the  Darkness. 
Folded  away  in  your  arms,  how  little  do  I  heed  their 
battle ! 


ANSWER  ME.  121 

The  trees  clash  in  vain  their  naked  swords  against  the 
door. 

I  go  not  forth  while  the  low  murmur  of  your  voice  is 
drifting  all  else  back  to  silence. 

The  darkness  presses  his  black  forehead  close  to  the 
window  pane,  and  beckons  me  without 

Love  holds  a  lamp  in  this  little  room  that  hath  power 
to  blot  back  Fear. 

But  will  the  lamp  ever  starve  for  oil  ? 

Will  its  blood-red  flame  ever  grow  faint  and  blue  ? 

Will  it  uprear  itself  to  a  slender  line  of  light  ? 

Will  it  grow  pallid  and  motionless  ? 

Will  it  sink  rayless  to  everlasting  death  ? 
Answer  me — 
Oh,  answer  me  ! 

V. 

Look  at  these  tear-drops. 

See  how  they  quiver  and  die  on  your  open  hands. 

Fold  these  white  garments  close  to  my  breast,  while  I 
question  you. 

Would  you  have  me  think  that  from  the  warm  shelter 
of  your  heart  I  must  go  to  the  grave  ? 

And  when  I  am  lying  in  my  silent  shroud,  will  you  love 
me  ?  • 

When  I  am  buried  down  in  the  cold,  wet  earth,  will 
you  grieve  that  you  did  not  save  me  ? 

Will  your  tears  reach  my  pale  face  through  all  the 
withered  leaves  that  will  heap  themselves  upon  my  grave  ? 

Will  you  repent  that  you  loosened  your  arms  to  let  me 
fall  so  deep,  and  so  far  out  of  sight  ? 


122  ANSWER  ME. 

Will  you  come  and  tell  me  so,  when  the  coffin  has  shut 
out  the  storm  ? 

Answer  me — 
Oh,  answer  me  1 


WOUNDED. 

JL<ET  me  lie  down ! 

Just  here  in  the  shade  of  this  cannon-torn  tree — 
Here,  low  in  this  trampled  grass,  where  I  may  see 
The  surge  of  the  combat,  and  where  I  may  hear 
The  glad  cry  of  victory,  cheer  upon  cheer, 

Let  me  lie  down. 

Oh,  it  was  grand ! 

Like  the  tempest  we  charged,  in  the  triumph  to  share ; 
The  tempest — its  fury  and  thunder  were  there, 
On,  on,  o'er  intrenchments,  o'er  living  and  dead, 
With  the  foe  underfoot  and  the  flag  overhead. 

Oh,  it  was  grand ! 

Weary  and  faint, 

Prone  on  the  soldier's  couch,  ah !  how  can  I  rest 
With  this  shot-shattered  head  and  sabre-pierced  breast  ? 
Comrades,  at  roll-call,  when  I  shall  be  sought, 
Say  I  fought  where  I  fell,  and  fell  where  I  fought, 

Wounded  and  faint. 

Oh,  that  last  charge  ! 

Right  through  the  dread  host  tore  the  shrapnel  and  shell, 
Through,  without  faltering— clear  through  with  a  yell — 

123 


124  WOUNDED. 

Right  in  their  midst,  in  the  turmoil  and  gloom 
Like  heroes  we  dashed,  at  the  mandate  of  doom. 
Oh,  that  last  charge ! 

But  I  am  dying  at  last ! 

My  mother,  dear  mother,  with  meek,  tearful  eye, 
Farewell !  and  God  bless  you,  forever  and  aye  ! 
Oh,  that  I  now  lie  on  your  pillowing  breast, 
To  breathe  my  last  sigh  on  the  bosom  first  prest ! 

I  am  dying,  dying  at  last. 


"  Where  is  the  promise  of  my  yenrs." 


Page  125. 


INFELIX. 

"INHERE  is  the  promise  of  my  years ; 

Once  written  on  my  brow  ? 
Ere  errors,  agonies  and  fears 
Brought  with  them  all  that  speaks  in  tears, 
Ere  I  had  sunk  beneath  my  peers ; 
Where  sleeps  that  promise  now  ? 

Naught  lingers  to  redeem  those  hours, 

Still,  still  to  memory  sweet ! 
The  flowers  that  bloomed  in  sunny  bowers 
Are  withered  all ;  and  Evil  towers 
Supreme  above  her  sister  powers 
Of  Sorrow  and  Deceit 

I  look  along  the  columned  years, 

And  see  Life's  riven  fane, 
Just  where  it  fell,  amid  the  jeers 
Of  scornful  lips,  whose  mocking  sneers. 
For  ever  hiss  within  mine  ears 

To  break  the  sleep  of  pain. 

I  can  but  own  my  life  is  vain 
A  desert  void  of  peace ; 


126  INFELIX. 

I  missed  the  goal  I  sought  to  gain, 
I  missed  the  measure  of  the  strain 
That  lulls  Fame's  fever  in  the  brain, 
And  bids  Earth's  tumult  cease. 

Myself!  alas  for  theme  so  poor 
A  theme  but  rich  in  Fear ; 
I  stand  a  wreck  on  Error's  shore, 
A  spectre  not  within  the  door, 
A  houseless  shadow  evermore, 
An  exile  lingering  here. 


4 so? 


